THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


THE   BUND    I'OET   AT    WORK 


PEBBLES  AND  SHELLS 


VERSES 


CLARENCE  HAWKES 


WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS  BY  ELBR1DGE  KINGSLEY 


PICTURESQUE  PUBLISHING  CO. 

NORTHAMPTON,  MASS. 

1895 


Copyright,  1895,  By  Clarence  Hawkes 


THE    BRYANT    PRINTING    COMPANY. 
FLORENCE,    MASS. 


DEDICATED 

To  my  mother  who  first  inspired  me  to  write,  and  has  since 
been  my  constant  helper. 


626097 


INTRODUCTION 


"Ye  who  love  the  haunts   of  Nature, 
Love  the  sunshine  and  the  meadow, 
Love  the  shadow  of  the  forest, 
Love  the  wind  among  the  branches, 
And  the  rain   shower  and  the  snow  storm, 
And   the  rushing   of   green  rivers, 
Through  their  palisades  and  pine  trees, 
And  the  thunder  in   the  mountains, 
Whose  innumerable  echoes 
Flap  like  eagles  in   their  eyries  :     Listen  !  " 

— Longfellow. 


In  accordance  with  the  above  adjuration,  so  captivating  to 
those  to  whom  the  apostrophe  is  addressed  the  almoner  who 
subscribes  himself  herewith,  at  once  opens  out  this  new  and 
effervescing  volume  of  poems  for  their  perusal,  bespeaking  from 
the  world  of  letters  a  sympathetic  ear,  and  consonance  with  its 
song  :  for, 

The  Book  of  Nature  is  ever  full  of  ecstasy  and  beauty.  Its 
leaves  turn  toward  the  sun.  Its  music  is  eolean.  Its  fountains 
are  pellucid  and  inexhaustible.  From  its  sources  we  have  to 
draw  and  drink  refreshingly.  Perchance  some  of  those  who 
read  these  stanzas  —  some  of  those  who  have  trod  the  sylvan 
paths  which  Thoreau  so  much  loved,  and  which  Longfellow 
never  tired  of  describing  with  his  pen,  may  be  persuaded  to 
link  arms  with  the  blind  author,  and  so  all  saunter  on  together? 


It  has  been  well  said  that  there  are  but  few  great  Nature 
lovers  ;  that  is  strictly  speaking,  whose  souls  are  in  attune  with 
the  Creator's :  but  there  have  been  a  sufficient  few  to  stamp 
their  personality  on  the  regions  which  they  have  animated. 
Thoreau's  country,  simple  as  it  is,  plain  in  its  features,  rough 
in  its  contour  sometimes,  is  lovable  because  Thoreau  has  been 
there.  We  love  the  sods  and  the  brown  leaves  which  his  feet 
have  pressed.  The  wildwood  precincts  are  hallowed  by  his 
memories.  Men  die,  voices  fail,  and  sentiment  decays.  Catbirds 
which  are  melodious  in  June  squawk  in  August.  Nevertheless,  we 
love  them  all,  birds  and  human  kind,  for  what  they  were,  and 
for  what  they  have  made  their  little  spots  of  earth  ;  and  so, 
when  the  Hadley  poet  sings,  we  love  him  too.  A  quiet  bit 
of  country  under  an  observant  eye  can  be  made  to  yield  a 
store  of  happiness.  Dudley  Warner  wheeled  his  settee  around 
the  garden-oak,  to  follow  the  sunshine  or  the  shade,  until  he 
wore  a  path  in  the  grass.  N.  P.  Willis  wrote  winsome  letters 
from  under  a  bridge.  And  now,  herewith,  a  vista  opens  before 
us  down  the  forest  lane.  Methinks  I  hear  the  muffled  drum 
beat  of  a  partridge  in  the  spruce.  "  Listen  ! "  We  feel  already 
an  impulse  to  proceed.  Come  with  the  poet  !  He  will  not 
sing  in  vain. 

Our  favorite  Eugene  Field  is  wont  to  dwell  with  sentimental 
fondness  upon  the  memories  of  his  dear  Hampshire  Hills :  the 
old  homestead,  the  cow  pasture,  the  yearling  colt,  the  watering 
trough,  the  deserted  mill,  the  little  red  school  house,  and  the 
playmates  of  his  youth.  But  his  reveries  are  liable  to  start  a 
tear  or  draw  his  readers  off  into  overgrown  lanes  and  solitary 
comers,  while  Hawkes'  themes,  which  bubble  and  flow  from 
the  self-same  hillsides,  are  for  the  most  part  sparkling,  treating 
of  the  ecstasies  of  the  present  hour.  Sun  pictures  they  are, 


indeed,    and  all  the  brighter,  apparently,   for  being  physiologically 
developed  in  the  dark  !     He  says  himself : 

'"Tis  not  for  wealth   1   sing  my  simple  lays,  \ 
Or  e'en  for  fame,   or  for  the  critic's  praise, 
But  for  the  joy  of  feeling  and  of  living 
All  that   1   say,   and  for  the  joy   of  giving." 

The  outburst  is  spontaneous  and  continuous.  Perhaps  it  is 
because  he  is  so  young?  And  so  we  find  his  treble  keyed 
to  the  notes  of  the  bluebird.  He  twines  his  lute  with  the 
flowers  that  bloom  in  the  spring  and  the  clematis  which  climbs 
up  over  the  porch.  In  the  sunny  comer  he  weaves  his  webs 
of  fancy,  while  he  inhales  the  sweet  aroma  which  lures  the 
insect  tribes.  In  his  mind's  eye  he  watches  them,  as  they  flit 
from  anther  to  corolla,  and  following  after,  gathers  poesy  from 
each  bloom.  Forsooth,  it  is  a  blessed  thing  to  have  no  eyes, 
and  so  shut  out  the  hideous  things  of  earth  ! 

Na'theless,  the  mind  will  not  permit  the  material  senses  to 
dwell  always  in  Elysium.  Whenever  the  imagination  strays 
into  the  Valley  of  the  Dark  Shadow,  as  it  must  sometimes,  it 
conjures  up  all  sorts  of  sombre  themes  ;  and  on  such  occasions 
the  vagrant  muse  emits  an  undertone  like  the  rumble  of  water 
in  a  deep  cavern.  It  is  then  the  poet  writes  dramatically  of 
battle  fields  and  carnage  in  which  he  has  had  no  part,  and  of 
chimeras  which  he  has  never  seen.  Ah  !  this  discerning  with 
the  spiritual  eye  !  who  shall  fathom  it  ?  Biologists  are  puzzled. 
But  are  not  these  mysterious  lucubrations  which  so  much  sur 
prise  us,  really  the  outcome  of  the  divine  nature  which  is  in 
man  ?  scintillations  of  omniscience,  as  it  were,  which  we  are 
told  is  an  attribute  of  the  immortal  world?  Does  Drummond 


inform   us  exactly   where  the  natural  and  the  spiritual  meet     and 
blend? 

It  was  my  good  fortune  to  be  domiciled  during  the  summer 
of  1893  under  the  same  venerable  rooftree  with  my  blind  young 
friend  whose  all  seeing  Muse  has  inspired  this  book  of  poems. 
1  have  touched  elbows  with  him  while  we  strolled  under  the 
spreading  elms  which  double  line  the  main  thoroughfare  of 
historic  Hadley,  and  marvelled  as  we  walked,  to  discover  that 
his  perception  was  in  some  respects  more  acute  than  mine ; 
especially  on  pitch-dark  nights,  when  I  had  to  depend  upon  his 
subtle  acumen  to  avoid  obstacles  which  my  natural  eye  could 
not  perceive  !  He  says  the  air  seems  more  dense  when  objects 
intervene.  And  so  it  is  that  he  recognizes  open  spaces  and  solid 
bodies  like  houses,  trees  and  telegraph  poles,  as  he  passes  along  ; 
or  persons  as  they  approach,  on  foot  or  in  vehicles,  even  at 
considerable  distances.  He  has  correct  ideas  of  locality  and  asso 
ciated  landmarks,  and  an  apprehension  of  dangerous  proximities, 
seldom  stumbling  over  obstacles,  or  into  a  hole.  In  fact, 
throughout  his  everyday  life  there  is  a  constant  manifestation  of 
psychical  phenomena  which  it  will  be  useless  to  attempt  to 
account  for  until  we  come  to  realize  that  the  carnal  envelope 
with  its  five  so-called  senses  is  actually  a  hindrance  rather  than 
a  help  to  a  free  operation  of  the  spiritual  energy. 

In  the  case  of  Clarence  Hawkes,  he  seems  to  possess  the 
gift  of  clairvoyance.  He  easily  discovers  articles  mislaid ; 
reads  character  with  correctness  by  a  grasp  of  the  hand ; 
and  when  introduced  to  strangers  will  size  up  their  height, 
weight,  features,  age,  and  state  of  health,  as  soon  as  he 
shakes  hands  with  them.  He  knows  when  chairs  and  tables 
are  removed  from  their  wonted  places  without  having  to  ascertain 
by  feeling  for  them,  and  he  can  tell  when  people  are  in  the 


room  and  how  many  there  are  even  when  perfect  silence  is 
preserved.  No  meteorological  changes  escape  his  notice.  Fair 
weather  cheers  him  and  dull  weather  depresses  him,  more  than 
it  does  most  of  those  who  see.  He  identifies  the  birds  by 
their  chirps  and  carols,  the  flowers  by  their  odors,  shrubs  by 
their  leaves,  trees  by  their  bark,  and  fishes  by  their  shape  and 
fins.  He  is  a  critical  musician  and  a  piano  tuner,  plays  chess, 
works  a  type-writer,  keeps  scores  of  ball  games,  and  travels 
all  over  the  country  without  a  companion.  Few  habitues  of 
the  mountain  streams  which  thread  his  native  hills  in  western 
Massachusetts  are  more  deft  in  casting  a  fly  or  worm,  or 
handling  a  trout.  Most  remarkable  of  all,  he  has  discovered 
that  the  gamut  is  prismatic  and  that  sounds  have  color. 
Middle  C,  he  says,  is  deep  red,  and  each  ascending  note 
grows  lighter  by  degrees  until  the  highest  becomes  white  ; 
while  the  lower  tones  are  graded  in  darker  shades  till  the 
very  lowest  shows  black. 

Mr.  Hawkes  received  a  four  years'  course  of  instruction  at  the 
Perkins  Institute  in  Boston.  His  study  of  elocution  at  that  time 
has  fitted  him  for  the  lecture  platform  which  he  adorns.  He 
has  also  been  a  successful  magazine  writer.  His  poem  "  Erosion  " 
took  the  fourth  prize  among  two  thousand  competitors  for  the 
prizes  offered  by  the  Magazine  of  Poetry  this  year.  His  younger 
brother,  it  is  due  to  say,  has  been  his  constant  help  as  reader 
and  amanuensis  for  several  years. 

It  is  half  a  century  since  the  literary  world  possessed  a  blind 
poet.  Percival  of  New  Haven  was  the  last.  But  Percival  had 
not  the  refined  intellectuality  of  the  author  of  this  volume.  As 
yet  it  is  too  soon  to  define  his  position  among  the  literati ; 
but  if  "Pebbles  and  Shells"  are  an  index,  the  Blind  Poet  of 
New  England  is  destined  to  occupy  a  high  place  among  the 


great  bards  of  America.  The  merits  of  some  part  of  its  con 
tents  have  been  so  signal  as  to  elicit  an  autograph  letter  of 
approval  from  Hon.  Robert  T.  Lincoln,  ex-Secretary  of  the  Navy. 

CHARLES  HAU.OCK. 


CONTENTS 

ILLUSTRATIONS 

Eight  Engravings  directly  from  Nature  by  Elbridge  Kingsley. 

The  Blind  Poet  at  Work.      " The  Mountain  to  the  Pine."      "In  the 

Wood."     Lookout  Mountain.      "  Sunshine  and  Shadow." 

"Where    There's    a   Pond    with    Lily    Pads." 

"  The  Deserted  Homestead."     "  The 

City  of  the   Dead." 


INTRODUCTION 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH. 


POEMS  OF  NATURE 


PAGE 

In  the  Wood 17 

Where  Dwells  the  Spirit  of  Poesy?  18 

The  Desert : 19 

Dawn 19 

Twilight 20 

The  Glacier 21 

Elegy  at  the  Birthplace  of  Bryant  21 

Pebbles  and  Shells  24 

The  Hurricane  . . . . ' 25 

Song  of  the  Brook 25 

Infinity 27 

The  Hangbird's  Nest 28 

'Tis  March 28 

The  Bluebird 30 

The  Mayflower 30 

The  Cliff  and  the  Sea 31 

Pebbles  and  Shells 33 

Sweet  May  !  Come  Back  Again.. .  34 

Morning  on  the  River 35 

Springtime  in  Old  Hadley 36 

Communion  with  Nature 36 

Sweet  Claribel 38 

Two  Mourners 39 

Two  Winds 39 

A  Pastel  in  Verse 40 

Pebbles  and  Shells 41 

By  Field  and  Lane 42 

The  Mountain  to  the  Pine 43 


PAGE 

June  and  October 43 

Noonday  in  Summer 44 

By  Hill  and  Vale 45 

The  Mountain  and  the  Stream. . . .  45 

Pebbles  and  Shells 46 

At  Nature's  Feet 47 

Niagara 47 

Little  Things 47 

To  an  Artist  at  Her  Easel 48 

The  Harvest 48 

Song  of  the  Robin 49 

October 50 

The  Last  Fair  Day 50 

Autumnal  Hopes 51 

Pebbles  and  Shells 52 

New  England  Winter 53 

The  Whip-poor-will 55 

The  Frozen  Stream 57 

The  Flicker 57 

Pictures  on  the  Pane 58 

Why? 59 

The  Sunset 59 

Pebbles  and  Shells 60 

The  North  Star 61 

A  Winter's  Night 61 

After  the  Storm 61 

A  Haven 62 

The  Circle  of  the  Golden  Year. ...  63 


POEMS  OF  WAR  AND  PATRIOTISM 


PAGE 

How  "  Fighting  Joe"  Hooker 

took  Lookout  Mountain 69 

A  Prisoner  in  Chains 71 

The  Living  Dead 72 


PAGE 

That  Last  Wild  Charge  at  Get 
tysburg 83 

Rebel  and  Patriot 87 

Who  Won  Marengo? 88 


How  Massa  Linkum  Came 72        Our  Flag 91 

La  Glllotine 80       The  Battle  of  Bunker  Hill 01 

Reveille  Song 81 


POEMS  OF  LOVE 


PACK 

The  Gipsy  Lass 99 

Sunshine  and  Shadow too 

Thine  Eyes 101 

Love's  Index ioa 

Pebbles  and  Shells 103 

Watching  and  Waiting 104 

To  My  Lady  Sleeping 106 

There  is  Beauty 106 

A  Boutonniere to; 

Only  a  Slender  Graven  Band 107 

To  a  Watch 109 

Pebbles  and  Shells tio 

I  Loved  Thee  So MI 

One  Memory in 


PACK 

Pygmalion  to  Galatea na 

A  New  Blown  Rose 114 

The  Poet's  Love 114 

15 
rf 


Sweet  Smiling  Lips. 

Love  or  Gold 

The  Rose  and  the  Thorn 

At  Devotion < 

Boating  on  the  Lake 

Playing  Tennis 

Yes  or  No 

If  I  But  Had  the  Key 

The  Ball  Dress 

The  Fisher-Maiden 

A  Portrait  of  My  Lady 


POEMS  OF  CHILDHOOD 


All  About  F  roars 127 

Shadows «8 

How  Tommy  Walked  on  the 

Water 128 

The  Buttercup 130 

All  About  Girls 13° 

All  About  Boys 132 


PACK 

Playing  House 133 

How  Santa  Claus  Came  Down 

the  Chimney 135 

A  Wish 136 

The  Sunbeam  and  the  Shadow — 137 
Confessions  of  a  Street  Gamin — 139 


POEMS  OF  OLD  NEW  ENGLAND 


PAGB 

The  Deserted  Homestead 149 

Gettin'  Hum 156 

Song  of  the  Ploughman 159 

Bilin'  Sap 162 

Ma's  Posy  Bed 166 


PAGE 

Song  of  the  Woodsman 168 

How  Be  Yer? 171 

A  Law  of  Nature 171 

Vanity 172 

Our  Sins 173 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


rVMM 

The  City  of  the  Dead 175 

The  Guerdon  of  Song 176 

Tears  of  Angels 176 

Pain's  Recompense 177 

Pebbles  and  Shells 178 

A  Fable  in  Art 179 

Satisfied 179 

The  Poet's  Joy 180 

Araplius 180 

The  Soul  of  Art 181 

A  Heart  of  Gold 182 

Pebbles  and  Shells 183 

Gethsemane 184 

The  Hidden  Life 184 

Asleep 185 

Album  Leaves 186 

Life  is  a  Day 187 


PACK 

The  Broken  Harp 187 

Pebbles  and  Shefls 188 

The  Poet's  Art 189 

Homeward  Bound 189 

The  Tower  of  Silence 190 

The  Noblest  Thing  of  All 192 

The  Road  to  Fame 193 

Pebbles  and  Shells 193 

The  Midshipmite 194 

Pebbles  and  Shells 202 

A  yuery 203 

The  Stream  of  Life 203 

Broken  Rails 204 

To  Paderewski  Playing 204 

Upon  the  Heights 205 

True  Riches 206 

Pebbles  and  Shells 207 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH 

FROM    THE    MAGAZINE    OF  POETRY 

Clarence  Hawkes,  better  known  as  the  "Blind  Poet  of  New 
England/'  was  born  in  Goshen,  Mass.,  December  i6th,  1869. 
When  nine  years  of  age,  he  met  with  an  accident  while 
returning  from  school,  which  culminated  in  the  amputation  of 
one  leg.  When  thirteen  years  of  age  while  out  hunting  he 
was  accidentally  shot  by  his  companion  and  both  eyes  were 
injured. 

After  undergoing  several  severe  operations  in  hopes  of 
regaining  his  sight,  this  hope  was  abandoned  and  at  the  age 
of  fifteen  he  entered  the  Perkins  Institution  lor  the  Blind. 
Here  in  addition  to  the  regular  course,  he  studied  music  and 
piano  tuning,  and  was  graduated  after  four  years,  taking  the 
last  two  years'  work  in  one.  The  following  year  he  returned 
to  the  school  for  a  post-graduate  course,  and  at  the  same  time 
began  the  study  of  law  and  oratory  with  teachers  from  Boston 
Colleges.  After  six  months  of  arduous  study  his  health  gave  way 
beneath  the  strain  and  he  returned  home  to  his  parents,  then 
located  at  Cummington,  Mass. 

One  year  was  then  spent  in  recruiting,  and  at  the  age  of 
twenty-one  Mr.  Hawkes  went  upon  the  platform  as  a  pnblic 
lecturer,  and  at  the  same  time  began  writing  short  stories  and 
poems  for  local  newspapers.  Since  that  time  he  has  written 
three  hundred  poems  and  over  fifty  short  stories  and  sketches, 


and  lectured  in  nearly  all  parts  of  New  England.  He  is  at 
present  a  contributor  to  over  a  score  of  the  high  class  period 
icals.  Mr.  Hawkes  travels  alone  on  his  lecture  trips  and  gets 
about  with  the  greatest  ease.  He  is  a  base-ball  and  football 
enthusiast,  a  skillful  fisherman  and  an  accomplished  chess  player, 
while  one  of  his  chief  amusements  is  to  visit  a  picture  gallery. 


POEMS    OF    NATURE 


;•>— — — — vv;,- 


IN  THE  WOOD 

On  woody  mount,  in  mossy  dell, 
Who  hath  not  felt  that  magic  spell 

That  steals  o'er  heart  and  brain, 
A  sweet  delight  that  ebbs  and  flows 
As  freely  as  the  zephyr  blows, 

Or  falls  the  summer  rain. 

How  well  I  know  its  every  mood  — 
That  gentle  spirit  of  the  wood ! 

That  bids  all  sorrow  cease ; 
A  subtle  something  in  the  air 
That  softly  steals  away  all  care, 

And  fills  the  soul  with  peace. 

It  lives  and  breathes  in  every  flower, 
It  whispers  in  the  leafy  bower 

Where  drowsy  insects  drone ; 
It  rises  into  sweetest  swells 
Where  the  sequestered  veery  dwells 

And  chants  his  love  alone. 

It  bursts  into  a  mighty  roar 

When  winter  sweeps  the  forest  hoar 

With  howling  hurricane ; 
It  murmurs  low  in  brooklet  flood, 
And  smiles  in  every  bursting  bud 

When  spring  comes  back  again. 


When  autumn  lights  her  crimson  flame 
What  artist  would  not  give  his  fame 

To  paint  so  rich  and  rare  ? 
When  winter  robes  the  firs  in  white, 
Resplendent  in  the  morning  light 
What  jewels  tremble  there ! 

How  soft  the  wind  of  summer  eves 
That  gently  whispers  in  the  leaves 

Of  lordly  forest  trees? 
How  wild  the  whirling  tempest's  breath 
That  wails  the  dirge  of  summer's  death 

In  magic  minor  keys ! 

Ah,  Nature !  wrap  thy  dreamy  shade 
About  the  life  that  thou  hast  made, 

And  let  me  slumber  long ! 
Thine  echoes  softly,  sweetly  roll 
Through  hidden  chambers  of  the  soul, 

And  teach  the  poet  song. 

WHERE  DWELLS  THE  SPIRIT  OF  POESY  ? 

Where  dwells  the  gentle  soul  of  poesy  ? 
Upon  the  cloudy  rifts  of  the  rainbow  skies, 
Deep  hidden  in  some  maiden's  love-lit  eyes, 
Or  at  the  bottom  of  the  rolling  sea, 
Far  down  in  sunless  caves  of  mystery? 

18 


Or  doth  her  voice  in  sweetest  accents  rise, 
From  bird,  or  brook,  or  is  it  in  the  cries 
The  wild  wind  wakes  upon  the  lonely  lea  ? 

The  soul  of  poesy  is  everywhere, 

Unto  the  eyes  and  ears  of  him  who  sings, 

And  all  the  world  is  filled  with  wondrous  things, 

To  him  whose  soul  reflects  the  beauties  there. — 

There  is  no  thing  so  mean  the  worlds  among, 

That  is  not  mete  to  grace  the  poet's  song. 

THE  DESERT 

Boundless,  changeless,  and  cruel  as  the  sea, 
With  brazen  skies  and  suffocating  air, 
With  burning  rocks  and  sand,  and  blinding  glare, 
And  silent  ether,  heavy  with  despair, 
Stretching  away  e'en  to  infinity. 

DAWN 

Slowly  the  waning  stars  above  grow  dim, 

Flicker  and  pale,  like  sparks  that  disappear ; — 

Far  in  the  east,  the  cold  horizon's  rim 

Softens  a  shade  as  dawn  of  day  draws  near. 

Then  comes  a  flush,  a  soft,  pale  crimson  streak, 
That  warms  and  mellows  as  the  young  day 
grows 

19 


Until  it  burneth  like  a  maiden's  cheek, 
Or  deeper  like  the  crimson  of  the  rose. 

But  higher  still  the  day's  avenging  fire 
Streams  o'er  the  ramparts  of  the  flying  night, 
Flooding  the  world  with  swift  effulgent  light, 

Waking  a  thousand  songs  from  Nature's  lyre ; 
And  then  the  great  sun  rolls  his  golden  car 

Up  from  the  east  and  drives  the  night  afar. 

TWILIGHT 

After  the  sun  goes  down  into  the  west 

And  day's  last  glowing  embers  slowly  die, 
And  fades  the  glory  of  the  sunset  sky, 

There  comes  an  hour  of  all  the  day  the  best, 

The  twilight  hour,  when  cares  are  laid  to  rest ; 
Then  o'er  the  fields  deep  cooling  shadows  lie ; 
No  restless  zephyr  stirs  the  sleeping  rye, 

And  all  the  little  birds  have  sought  their  nest. 

Softly  the  night  comes  creeping  o'er  the  land, 
Folding  the  earth  in  cool  refreshing  shade, 
Moistening  each  thirsty  flower  and  leaf  and 

blade, 

With  gentle  dew,  distilled  by  heaven's  hand ; 
So  swift  it  comes,  that,  e'er  they  drink  their  fill, 
The  calm  night  reigns  on  field,  and  wood  and 
hill. 


20 


THE  GLACIER 

Softly  sliding,  slipping  slowly  down, 

Each  moment  farther  from  the  mountain's  crown 

The  glacier  comes ; —  and  so  the  human  will 

That  retrogrades,  each  hour  gets  lower  still, 

Until  at  last,  beside  the  mountain's  base 

We  scarce  can  recognize  the  old-time  face. 

ELEGY  AT  THE  BIRTHPLACE  OF  BRYANT 

Like  pilgrims  to  the  shrine  we  climbed  the  hill 
To  view  the   spot  where   Nature's  bard   was 

born, 
To  get  perhaps  a  momentary  thrill 

From  "  classic  ground,"  or  from  the  summer 
morn. 

It  was  the  month  when  earth  and  heaven  vie, 
Of  balmy  air,  and  tender  bursting  buds, 

Above  the  deep  cerulean  of  the  sky, 

Below,  the  verdure  of  the  fields  and  woods. 

We  heard  the  south  wind  stir  the  half-grown  corn, 
The  babbling  of  a  brooklet  fleeing  fast ; 

And  low  of  kine  upon  the  breezes  borne, 

And  song  of  birds,  that  caroled  as  we  passed ; 

We  saw  the  vastness  of  the  cloudless  dome, 
The  endless  beauty  of  the  verdant  earth ; 

And  on  a  distant  hill,  the  summer  home, 
And  at  our  feet,  the  scene  of  Bryant's  birth. 


But  now  no  dwelling  crowns  the  cellar  wall, 
For,  long  ago,  its  beams  and  rafters  fell  — 

Only  a  marble  shaft,  not  broad  or  tall, 
Amid  the  solitude  stands  sentinel. 

And  now,  no  children's  merry  shout  is  heard, 
That  sound  of  yore  that  cheered  the  poet's 
heart 

Yet  still  there  comes  the  "  lilting  "  of  a  bird, 
And  one  wild  rose  has  not  forgot  the  spot. 

There  is  no  trace  of  footsteps  on  the  lawn, 
No  vestige  of  the  well-worn  gravel  path,  — 

Even  the  rustic  gate  and  fence  are  gone, 
So  time  obliterates  the  scars  of  earth. 

And  he,  the  noblest  of  that  happy  throng, 
That  gaily  gathered  here  in  years  of  yore, 

The  fair,   the  brave,   the  high-souled,   and  the 

strong, 
Is  gone,  and  earth  shall  see  his  face  no  more. 

Only  the  sweep  of  deep  eternal  hills, 

Frescoes  of  earth,  against  the  dreamy  sky, 

The  reverent  soul  with  awe  and  rapture  fills, 
Unchanged  since  when  it  cheered  the  poet's 
eye. 

And  can  it  be  that  all  which  he  has  said, 

The  works  of  years,  will  fade  away  like  this? 


22 


That,  one  by  one,  the  burning  lines  will  fade, 
Until  the  eye  discerns  but  emptiness? 

Ah,  no !  'twas  not  with  blocks  of  wood  he 
wrought, 

But  with  the  hard-hewn  rocks  of  solid  truth , 
Building  them  high  into  the  temple,  Thought, 

Where  they  are  mortared  in  eternal  youth. 

And  they  shall  stand,  until  the  human  heart 
To  Nature's  simple  song  no  longer  thrills. 

Years  after  men  forget  this  quiet  spot, 

Far  up  amid  the  dreamy  Hampshire  hills. 


23 


PEBBLES  AND  SHELLS 

GOD'S   MIRACLES 

Why  talk  of  wondrous  miracles  of  yore, 

When    June   comes   whisp'ring   at    thy   lattice 

door, — 

Are  not  the  springing  grass  and  op'ning  flowers 
God's  miracles  through  all  the  summer  hours  ? 

GREAT   AND    SMALL 

The  grain  of  dust  that  dances  in  the  sun 

Obeys   that    law    that    guides   the   heavenly 
spheres, 

And  all  the  stellar  bodies,  one  by  one, 

Go  swinging  round,  obedient  to  the  years. 

ENVIRONMENT 

A  wondrous  shell  was  thrown  up  from  the  deep, 
Where  it  had  lain  long  centuries  asleep  — 
But,  in  a  day,  the  sunlight  and  the  dew 
Had  cracked  and  stained  this  shell  of  wondrous 
hue. 

MY   AVIARY 

My  aviary  is  the  deep  green  wood,  — 
I  would  not  cage  its  songsters  if  I  could. 
Sweeter  the  song  of  one  wild  bird  to  me 
Than  all  the  notes  of  sad  captivity. 

24 


THE  HURRICANE 

The  azure  sky  grows  green  like  ocean's  brine, 
The  listless  air  is  hot  and  strangely  still, 
And  yet  there  comes  a  momentary  thrill, 
As  of  the  coming  storm,  to  give  a  sign ; 
The  lowering  clouds  have  gathered  into  line, 
Their  dark  array  enfolds  the  distant  hill, 
And  on  the  air,  so  suddenly  grown  chill, 
There  comes  the  moaning  of  the  rocking  pine ; 
Then  clouds  of  leaves  and  dust  sweep  down  the 

lane, 
Close  followed  by  the  howling  hurricane. 

Swift  forked  lightnings   twist   their   snake-like 

forms 

Among  the  clouds,  and  fill  the  sky  with  dread ; 
Deep  throated  thunders  bellow  overhead 
And  all  things  bow  before  the  King  of  Storms. 

SONG  OF  THE  BROOK 

I  come  from  afar  up  the  mountain, 

The  favorite  child  of  the  snow ; 
I  leap  from  a  laughing  wee  fountain, 

And  fall  in  a  basin  below. 

By  churning  and  boiling  and  gushing, 
I  pierce  through  a  dark  mountain  wall, 

And  into  the  sunlight  come  rushing, 
To  fling  far  a  beautiful  fall. 

25 


Now  down  a  long  stairway  for  giants, 

From  basin  to  basin  I  spring ; 
All  foaming,  and  roaring  defiance, 

My  spray  to  the  breezes  I  fling. 

Then  into  a  peaceful  green  meadow 

I  lazily,  placidly  flow, 
And  thence  to  the  woodlands'  dark  shadow 

With  laughter  and  dancing  I  go. 

I  sparkle  and  bubble  with  pleasure, 

As  over  the  pebbles  I  slide ; 
I  murmur  a  musical  measure 

As  under  the  willows  I  glide. 

In  springtime  I  water  the  flowers 
That  nod  their  sweet  faces  to  me ; 

In  summer  I  drink  up  the  showers, 
And  hurry  them  off  to  the  sea. 

When  Autumn's  rich  beauties  are  dying  — 

Then  sadly  I  murmur  my  lay ; 
When  o'er  me  the  snow  bank  is  lying, 

I  gurgle  the  winter  away. 

I  ripple,  I  dimple,  I  bubble  — 
I  chatter  by  day  and  by  night.  — 

My  laughter  will  banish  your  trouble, 
My  song  is  a  giver's  delight. 


Don't  stop  me  to  idle  or  dally, 
My  life-work  is  ever  to  flow; 

The  meadow,  the  mill-wheel  and  valley, 
Are  waiting  to  greet  me  below. 

I  pause  not  in  lakelet  or  river, 
I  rest  not  in  woodland  or  lea, 

Still  onward  and  onward  forever 
I  flow  to  the  boundless  blue  sea. 


INFINITY 

I  took  swift  wings,  that  knew  no  time  no  space,. 
And  fled  unto  the  utmost  star  that  shines, — 
E'en  to  the  end  of  things,  that  man  divines, 

Yet  cannot  see,  then  turned  my  eager  face 

To  view  the  sight  —  to  find  some  resting  place 
For  human  faith  —  a  revelation  grand ; 
But  saw  the  countless  stars  on  every  hand 

That  lit  great  planets  in  their  endless  race. 

Again  I  sought  a  star  remote  and  dim 
That  flickered  on  the  far  horizon's  rim, 

But  saw  the  same  deep,  star-bespangled  blue ;. 
Yet  once  again  I  fled  for  countless  years 
Through  endless  deserts  of  unnumbered  spheres, 

But  with  each  hour  the  stellar  pageant  grew.. 


THE  HANGBIRD'S  NEST 

Fashioned  so  fair,  this  small  inverted  dome, 
With  bits  of  moss,  and  grass,  and  strings, 
And  underneath  the  brooding  wings, 
Four  tender,  tiny,  gaping  things, 
And  near  the  nest  the  one  who  sings. 

Ah!  heart  of  mine,  is  this  not  truly  home? 

'TIS  MARCH 

'Tis  March  and  far  o'er  hill  and  dale, 
With  rush,  and  roar,  the  winter  gale 

Through  bitter  cold  is  flying ; 
While  down  beneath  the  frozen  snow, 
The  fairest  flowers  that  ever  blow 

In  winter  graves  are  lying. 

No  sunshine  melts  the  icy  hand, 
That  still  in  grip-like  iron  band 

The  tend'rest  life  is  holding, 
Un warmed  by  any  parting  light, 
The  dreary  mantle  of  the  night 

About  the  earth  is  folding. 

Nay !   fret  thee  not  —  the  day  will  come 
When  from  their  far-off  sunny  home, 

Will  come  the  Southern  breezes, 
To  melt  away  the  ice  and  snow, 
And  whisper  to  the  flowers  below  — 

"  Dread  March  no  longer  freezes." 
28 


Then  birds  will  sing  in  all  the  bowers, 
And  softest  clouds  and  fairest  flowers 

Will  whisper  joys  unspoken  ; 
All  Nature'll  sing  a  sweeter  song, 
Because  the  winter  has  been  long, 

And  now  his  chains  are  broken. 

'Tis  March,  and  o'er  my  weary  soul 
Misfortune's  storm  with  ceaseless  roll, 

Its  onward  march  is  sweeping ; 
While  far  beneath  the  lapse  of  years 
Long  buried  there,  with  many  tears, 

My  fondest  hopes  are  sleeping. 

No  sunshine  ushers  in  the  day, 
No  sunbeams  fall  across  the  way 

To  cheer  a  heart  that's  weary ; 
And  still  the  darkest  storm-clouds  lie 
Across  the  azure  of  my  sky, 

And  all  is  dark  and  dreary. 

Be  strong,  my  heart !   I  know  some  day 
That  all  thy  clouds  shall  roll  away, 

By  fortune's  breezes  driven ; 
Then  hope  shall  scatter  all  thy  fears ; 
A  sunny  smile  shall  dry  thy  tears, 

And  thou  shalt  see  but  heaven. 


THE  BLUEBIRD 

Fair  herald  of  the  coming  spring 
That  fearest  not  the  winter's  snow, 
The  friendly  fields  begin  to  show, 

0  haste  thy  gaily-painted  wing 

1  long  to  hear  thee  carolling 

Upon  the  tree-top,  sweet  and  low ; 

For  when  I  hear  thy  song,  I  know 
That  soon  the  robin  too  will  sing, 
And  all  the  merry  woods  will  ring 

With  Springtime's  well  remembered  song ; 

That  flowers  will  wake  from  slumber  long 
And  lift  their  fragrant  offering  — 
Didst  know  what  joy  thy  song  would  bring, 
Dear  little  harbinger  of  spring? 

THE  MAYFLOWER 

A  beautiful  floweret  was  sleeping 

Down  deep  'neath  the  grasses  and  snow ; 

The  chains  of  the  winter  were  keeping 
Its  color  and  fragrance  below. 

But  springtime,  with  softest  of  breezes, 
With  laughing  and  smiling  all  day, 

Soon  shamed  the  dark  season  that  freezes, 
And  melted  the  snowdrops  away. 


30 


Then  down  came  a  cold  April  shower, 
And  dashing  the  floweret  with  spray, 

It  parted  the  folds  of  her  bower, 

And  showed  her  the  light  of  the  day. 

Oh,  sweetly  then  smiled  the  fair  sleeper, 
And  op'ning  her  eyes  to  the  light, 

Her  beauties  grew  wider  and  deeper, 

The  smile  on  her  face  grew  more  bright. 

Our  sorrows  are  falling  like  snowflakes, 
Our  pleasures  are  melting  like  snow ; 

Kind  nature  ne'er  thinks  of  our  heart-aches ; 
A  flower  is  sleeping  below. 

She  melts  us  with  showers  of  trouble, 
(For  life  hath  its  seasons  of  rain) ; 

Our  tears  are  the  fountains  that  bubble 
In  deserts  of  sorrow  and  pain. 

She  rouses  the  soul  that  is  sleeping 
With  showers  so  chilling  and  cold ; 

New  treasures  she  gives  to  its  keeping ; 
The  beautiful  petals  unfold. 

THE  CLIFF  AND  THE  SEA 

Like  some  imperial  fortress  dark  and  lone, 
With  frowning  walls,  the  cliff  o'erhung  the  sea ; 
And  little  waves  caressed  it  tenderly, 

Yet  each  advance  was  coldly  backward  thrown, 

31 


Then  angry  grew  the  sea,  and  on  the  stone 
Heaped  mighty  waves  that  struck  with  thun 
derous  shock  — 
Yet  all  in  vain  they  beat  upon  the  rock 

And  wind  and  wave  subsided  with  a  moan. 

Then  spake  the  sea  in  deep  and  sullen  roar 
That  echoed  far  along  the  rocky  strand, 

Behold !     My  waves  shall  break  upon  this  shore, 
And  I  will  lash  the  cold  repellant  land, 

Until  this  cliff  that  proudly  towers  me  o'er, 
Beneath  my  feet  shall  be  but  grains  of  sand. 


PEBBLES  AND  SHELLS 

THE    PHEBE 

Calling  its  plaintive  note  from  post  and  tree 
The  Phebe  comes,  nor  has  he  other  range ; 

And  this  poor  song  is  like  a  life  to  me 

That    moves   in    one  dull  round,   and  cannot 
change. 

THE    PITCHER    PLANT 

With  parted  petals  to  receive  the  dew, 
And  sun  and  rain  this  flower  in  beauty  grew ; 
And  so  must  we  unfold  our  hearts  to  hold 
The  sun  and  shower  of  wisdom  manifold. 

THE    RAINBOW 

Oft  when  the  heavens  are  darkest  with  the  storm 
A  wondrous  rainbow  in  the  sky  appears. 
Oft  when  the  heart  is  heaviest  with  fears, 
Hope  riseth  up  with  bright  irradiant  form. 

FOUR-LEAFED    CLOVER 

Four-leafed  clover,  I  do  not  ask  of  thee 
To  bring  me  gold,  or  bright  gems  from  the  sea, 
But  rather  bring  me  wealth  of  heart  and  mind ; 
These  are  the  treasures  that  I  fain  would  find. 


33 


SWEET  MAY!  COME  BACK  AGATN 

Sweet  May !  Sweet  May !  come  back  again ; 

'Tis  long  since  thou  hast  smiled. 
Bring  back  thy  gentle  showers  of  rain, 

Thy  fragrant  flowerets  wild. 

Bring  back  the  laughter  of  thy  rills, 

The  hum  of  drowsy  bees, 
The  verdant  freshness  of  the  hills, 

The  bud  bespangled  trees. 

Bring  back  thy  songsters'  liquid  flood 

Of  music  soft  and  low, 
Bring  back  the  sweet  arbutus  bud 

That  blossoms  down  below. 

Bring  back  each  harbinger  of  spring 

Of  happy  summer  day. 
Let  every  voice  of  nature  sing  — 

"  I  would  'twas  always  May." 

Sweet  May !  Sweet  May !  come  back  again ; 

'Tis  long  since  thou  hast  smiled. 
Bring  back  thy  sweet  and  silent  reign 

Of  beauties  soft  and  mild. 

Bring  back  thy  converse's  gentle  flow ; 
Those  happy  laughing  eyes ; 


34 


Upon  thy  cheeks  that  tinted  glow, 
The  blush  of  evening  skies. 

Bring  back  the  sunshine  of  my  heart, — 

That  smile  upon  my  face. 
Bring  back  each  gentle  winning  art, 

That  made  thee  queen  of  grace. 

Bring  back  each  harbinger  of  bliss, 

And  scatter  all  my  fear. 
Of  all  the  seasons,  love  I  this, 

When  thou,  sweet  May,  art  here. 

MORNING  ON  THE  RIVER 
Tis  morning  on  the  river  broad  and  deep, 

The  fair  Connecticut  so  dear  to  me, 
That  through   the   Hadley  meadows  slow  doth 
creep, 

Upon  its  journey  to  the  distant  sea, 
A  silver  mist  like  to  a  fleecy  cloud 

Is  floating  where  the  fair-faced  lilies  hide, 
And  to  its  verdant  bank  the  mountains  crowd 
To  view  their  grandeur  in  the  sleeping  tide. 

Now  morning  sunlight  breaks  upon  the  mist, 
Faint  seen  at  first  but  ever  growing  clear, 
Like  to  the  hidden  smile  behind  a  tear, 

Until  the  tender  beams  have  gently  kissed 
Away  each  trace  of  tears  from  Nature's  eyes 
And  left  her  free  to  smile  through  cloudless 
skies. 

35 


SPRINGTIME  IN  OLD  HADLEY 

Soft  is  the  air  when  first  the  robin  sings 
Among  the  budding  elms,  and  far  he  flings 
The  bold  triumphant  strain  of  other  days 
Across  the  field.      How  changed  are  all  earth's 

ways! 

What  floral  beauty  springs  and  bursts,  and  swells 
In  all  her  fields  and  lanes,  and  distant  dells, 
How  birds,  and  brooks  and  bees,  the  whole  day 

long 

Flood  all  the  walks  of  earth  with  happy  song ! 
What  subtle  sweetness  fills  the  fields  and  woods 
When  Nature  recreates  her  solitudes ; 
And  in  the  street,  upon  the  giant  trees, 
The  young  leaves  rustle  in  their  ecstacies ; 
Awhile  the  elms,  by  springtime  scantly  drest, 
Stand  grandly  forth,  half  hidden,  yet  confessed. 

COMMUNION  WITH  NATURE 

I  hold  this  true  —  it  is  not  solitude 
Alone  to  wander  through  the  trackless  wood, 
To  pierce  the  deepest  dells  of  spruce  and  pines,. 
Where  overhead  the  fair  clematis  twines, 
Where  'neath  your  feet  the  soft  moss  sinks  and 

swells, 

More  fair  than  Persian  rugs  or  rich  Brussels ! 
To  climb  the  rugged  steeps  where  stately  stand 
Like  giant  sentries  to  the  lower  land 

36 


The  lordly  oaks,  more  spreading  than  the  pine, 
Upon  whose  trunks  the  wild  grape  clusters  shine ; 
What  sky-born  palace  of  the  ancient  time, 
Relumed  by  limnel  brush,  or  poet's  rhyme, 
Can  match  this  peerless  palace  of  the  trees  ? 
With  roof  and  dome  and  tower  and  graceful  frieze 
All  fashioned  with  a  patience  and  an  art, 
Through  centuries,  that  wrought  each  tiny  part. 

Let  rich  men  boast  their  beds  of  softest  down, 
Upon  the  woodland  moss  I  lay  me  down, 
Where  flowers  and  ferns  and  grass  all  interlace, 
To  make  my  weary  head  a  resting  place. 
There  far  above  me  for  a  frescoed  wall, 
The  woodland  green  is  stretching  over  all, 
Save  where  the  friendly  branches  parting  high, 
Have  left  a  place  to  view  the  summer  sky. 
From  bough  to  bough  the  nimble  squirrel  springs, 
And  in  each  tree  a  plumed  minstrel  sings ; 
Among  the  fallen  leaves  are  busy  ants, 
Rich  treasures   to  the    mind   that   knows  their 

haunts, 

And  loves  to  watch  them  build  their  little  domes, 
And  blend  in  one  a  thousand  happy  homes ; 
Or  see  the  spider  spin  his  rainbow  gauze, 
Obedient  to  some  hidden  unknown  laws. 

But  if  I  lacked  companions  in  the  wood, 
The  forest  stream  would  woo  me  to  its  flood, 

37 


For  like  this  torrent  fleeing  from  its  home, 

Impatient  of  delay  I  love  to  roam ; 

Down  stony  steeps  to  plunge  in  mad  career, 

Or  walk  beside  it,  running  deep  and  clear, 

To  saunter  with  it  through  the  woodland  glen, 

And  dream  apace  afar  from  haunts  of  men, 

But  ever  onward  to  the  boundless  sea, 

To  enter  there  and  know  its  mystery. 

SWEET  CLARIBEL 

Sweet  Claribel,  we  called  her  Nature's  child, 
Because  she  was  a  child  of  many  moods ; 
She  loved  the  flowers,  the  meadows,  and  the 
woods, 

But  most  of  all  the  birds  that  caroled  wild. 

Her  azure  eyes,  were  ever  deep  and  mild 

Like  summer  skies ;  her  lips  were  cherry  buds ; 
She  laughed  more  sweetly  than  the  brook  that 
floods 

The  mill,  and  all  was  sunshine  when  she  smiled. 

To-day  she  sleeps,  and  o'er  her  lowly  grave 
The  cactus  blooms,  and  fair  palmettos   wave,  — 

But  docs  she  know  the  skies  are  wondrous  blue  ? 
It  cannot  be  she  heard  what  robin  said, 
Or  sees  the  flowers  that  cluster  round  her  head ; 

She'd  wake,  and  come  up  laughing  if  she  knew. 

38 


TWO  MOURNERS 

My  golden  robin  built  his  nest 
Upon  a  shady  linden  tree, 
Then  sought  afar  o'er  wood  and  lea 

And  found  the  bird  he  loved  the  best. 

I  built  a  cottage  for  my  guest, 
A  little  maid  who  cared  for  me, 
And  there  we  lived  so  happily, 

Her  golden  head  upon  my  breast. 

The  wind  grew  wroth  one  summer  night 
And  tost  the  nestlings  from  the  tree, 
And  wrecked  my  cottage  by  the  sea, 

And  crushed  the  flower  of  my  delight ;  — 
Another  nest  fronts  wind  and  rain, 
But  I  shall  never  build  again. 

TWO  WINDS 

The   north   wind   breathes   his   bitter   stinging 

breath, 

And  all  the  little  flowers  fall  down  in  death ; 
The  south  wind  whispers  over  field  and  plain, 
And  every  tender  bud  comes  back  again. 


39 


A  PASTEL  IN  VERSE 

Golden  sunlight  on  a  rye-field  softly 

Gleaming  when  the  summer  day  is  waning ; 

Bathing  all  the  field  in  heavenly  glory, 

Flooding  it  with  mellow  amber  light. 

Far  away  the  verdure  of  the  hilltops 

Rises  up  to  meet  the  summer  sky, 

And  the  great  white  ships  thai  sail  the  heavens 

Drift  against  them  but  they  do  not  perish 

Like  the  ships  that  sail  the  treacherous  sea. 

Among  the  nodding  heads  the  busy  bee 

Is  searching  for  the  sweetness  of  the  flowers, 

Just  as  mortals  look  for  joy  and  gladness 

Among  the  brambles  in  the  field  of  life. 

Here  a  swath  of  golden  grain  is  lying 

Telling  of  the  farmer's  life  of  toiling, 

And  the  children  in  the  distant  farmhouse 

That  he  labors  here  so  hard  to  feed. 

There  the  grain  in  graceful  stacks  is  standing, 

Telling  of  the  store  that  must  be  gathered 

E'er  the  winter  comes  with  sleet  and  snow. 

And  these  are  nature's  wondrous  fields  and  skies, 

Her  trees,  her  flowers,  her  grain  fields,  and  her 

fruit, 

And  her  richness  and  her  wondrous  beauty, 
All  are  man's  and  to  him  freely  given, 
He  the  rightful  lord  of  all  creation 
And  the  highest,  noblest  work  of  heaven. 

40 


So  he  who  paints  one  page  from  Nature's  book 
With  Nature's  art,  has  painted  God  and  Heaven. 

PEBBLES  AND  SHELLS 

A    BREATH 

Out  of  the  garden  came  a  little  breeze, 

Rich  with  the  scent  of  budding  flowers  and  trees ; 

So  sweet  the  breath,  that  by  me  idly  went, 

My  aching  heart  was  filled  with  sweet  content. 

THE    SEASONS 

Spring  is  a  laughing  girl  with  azure  eyes, 
Summer    the  dreamy  maiden  grown  more  wise, 
Autumn  is  womanhood,  with  joy,  and  pain, 
And  Winter  age,  when  life  begins  to  wane. 

THE    ICE-FLOE 

The  ice-floe  drifting  from  the  northern  pole, 
But  shows  a  little  o'er  the  rolling  seas ; 
So  he  who  thinks  he  knows  life's  mysteries, 
But  sees  a  portion  of  the  mighty  whole. 

THE   AURORA 

Only  a  flush  upon  the  northern  sky, 

Then  suddenly  the  heavens  open  wide, 

And  flames  with  green  and  gold,  and  crimson 

dyed, 
Leap  fiercely  forth,  then  slowly  sink,  and  die. 

41 


BY  FIELD  AND  LANE 

Poor    is  the  prince,   though  Croesus*  countless 
gold, 

And  all  the  priceless  gems  of  earth's  dark  mold, 
Be  lavished  at  his  feet,  if  he  ne'er  sees 
The  beauty  of  this  world  of  mysteries. 

Rich  is  the  swain  beside  this  man  of  gold, 

Though  poor  his  purse,  his  garments  torn  and  old, 
Whose  eyes  can  see,  and  heart  can  understand 
The  wondrous  joys  of  Nature's  lavish  hand. 

For  'tis  not  wealth,  or  fame,  or  power,  or  birth, 
That  gives  man's  soul  its  heritage  of  worth, 
It  is  the  mind  to  grasp,  the  heart  to  feel 
The  whole  of  life,  its  beauty,  and  its  weal, 
To  draw  pure  pleasure  sweet  for  age  or  youth 
From  out  the  founts  of  God's  eternal  truth. 

To  live  like  yonder  robin  in  her  nest 
And  know  that  all  that  happeneth  is  best, 
To  learn  a  lesson  from  yon  hive  of  bees, 
That  draw  their  sweetness   from  the  flowers 

and  trees, 

To  read  fair  Nature's  book  on  mount  and  dell, 
And  lend  thy  soul  unto  her  silent  spell, 
To  feel  the  law,  the  truth,  the  happy  plan 
That  bindeth  Nature  to  the  heart  of  man. 


THE  MOUNTAIN  TO  THE  PINE 

Thou  tall,  majestic  monarch  of  the  wood, 
That  standeth  where  no  wild  vines  dare  to- 
creep, 

Men  call  thee  old,  and  say  that  thou  hast  stood 
A  century  upon  my  rugged  steep ; 

Yet  unto  me  thy  life  is  but  a  day, 
When  I  recall  the  things  that  I  have  seen, — 

The  forest  monarchs  that  have  passed  away 
Upon  the  spot  where  first  I  saw  thy  green ; 

For  I  am  older  than  the  age  of  man, 
Or  all  the  living  things  that  crawl  or  creep, 
Or  birds  of  air,  or  creatures  of  the  deep ; 

I  was  the  first  dim  outline  of  God's  plan, — 
Only  the  waters  of  the  restless  sea 
And  the  infinite   stars  in  heaven  are  old  to 
me. 


June  and  October  come  to  us  and  reign, 

Abide  with  us  through  all  the  changing  year 
And  make  this  earth  more  fair,  this  life  more 

dear, 

Let  summer  sunlight  flood  each  darksome  plain, 
Let  autumn  glory  deck  each  lonely  lane, 

And  all  the  world  be  filled  with  songs  of  cheer, 
Till  life  shall  be  too  full  for  doubt  and  fear. 

43 


Dark  is  the  heart,  and  steeped  in  ceaseless  pain 
That  cannot  smile  when  June  comes  back  again  ; 
Sad  is  the  soul,  and  lonely  are  the  ways 
That  can  resist  October's  dreamy  days. 
I  love  them  both,  these  gentle  sisters  twain,— 
Sweet,  smiling  June,  without  a  thought  of  care, 
And  fair  October  with  her  chestnut  hair. 

NOONDAY  IN  SUMMER 

The  brazen  sun  is  in  the  zenith  sky, 
Its  summer  heat  has  scorched  earth's  shady  ways, 
Her  verdure  withers  'neath  its  burning  rays, 
And  fragile  flow'rets  fade,  and  droop,  and  die. 
The  cooling  winds  are  e'en  too  faint  to  sigh, 
And  all  the  leaves  upon  the  trees  are  still, 
The  busy  bee  goes  droning  o'er  the  hill 
To  gather  sweetness  from  the  blooming  rye. 
The  brook  still  sings  its  drowsy  lullaby, 
And  shrill  the  locust  wakes  his  noonday  lay, 
But  still  the  sunflower  drinks  the  burning  ray 
And  turns  its  face  up  fearless  to  the  sky, 
And  hollyhocks  and  poppies  look  more  fair 
Beneath  the  glamour  of  the  noonday  glare. 


44 


BY  HILL  AND  VALE 

Through  hill  and  vale  life's  winding  way  is  laid 
By  stony  walks  and  highways  fresh  and  sweet, 
And  oft  the  cruel  stones  shall  cut  thy  feet 

As  one  by  one  life's  countless  steps  are  made  ; 

And  some   at  noon  shall  rest  them  in  the  shade 
Upon  the  summit  of  achievements  steep, 
And  some  at  morn  shall  lay  them  down   to 
sleep, 

When  life  is  fresh,  in  indolence's  cool  shade ; 

And  some  are  strong  of  heart  and  not  dismayed 
By  all  the  dangers  of  life's  varied  way,  — 
With  swift  impetuous  feet  that  naught  can  stay 

They  journey  on ;   and  some  are  sore  afraid,  — 
But  still  they  hurry  on,  by  hills  and  vales 
Until  the  sun   goes   down  and  day-light  fails. 

THE  MOUNTAIN  AND  THE  STREAM 

"  Oh,  restless  stream,  why  do  you  hurry? 
This  peaceful  world  is  not  for  worry ; 
Pray,  stop  with  me  and  view  the  scene  — 
The  tranquil  hills,  and  meadows  green.  " 

"  I  cannot  stop,  I  flow  forever, 
For  I  must  be  a  mighty  river ; 
You  ne'er  can  feel  and  ne'er  can  know 
The  boundless  joy  it  is  to  flow. 
So  while  you  stand,  majestic,  grand, 
I  hurry  along,  with  ceaseless  song 
To  ocean's  strand." 

45 


PEBBLES  AND  SHELLS 

EROSION 

Even  the  little  waves  that  idly  dance 
Against  the  cliff,  will  crumble  it  to  sand ; 
And  so,  with  ceaseless  toil,  the  slightest  hand 

May  wear  away  the  walls  of  circumstance. 

THE    AFTERGLOW 

After  the  day  is  done,  the  passing  light 
Sheddeth  a  halo  round  the  feet  of  night ; 
So,  after  death,  a  noble  life  may  shed 
Soft  radiance  where  they  that  live  must  tread. 

NATURE'S  PALACE 

What  courts  of  stone  can  match  the  deep  green 

wood 
Where  verdant   oaks   and   maples   spreading 

meet, 
With  ferns,  and  flowers,  and  mosses  for  the 

feet, 
And  for  man's  din,  sweet  Nature's  solitude. 

THE  LANGUAGE  OF  THE  LEAVES 

When  in  the  deep  green  woods  I  idly  walk, 
And  all  the  little  leaves  begin  to  talk 
Among  the  branches  of  the  forest  trees, — 
I  think  how  filled  is  earth  with  mysteries. 

46 


AT  NATURE'S  FEET 

I  love  to  be  a  child  at  Nature's  feet, 

And  on  her  mossy  footstool  sit  and  dream, 
Awhile  the  wild  wind  and  the  mountain  stream 

Delight  mine  ears  with  music  wondrous  sweet. 

I  love  to  note  the  marvelous  conceit 

With  which  she  hides  her  beauty  and  her  grace, 
And  decks  with  care  each  lone  forsaken  place, 

And  fills  the  sea  with  beauties  so  replete. 

O,  Nature !   fill  me  with  thy  sweet  delight, 
And  let  me  learn  thy  matchless  minstrelsy, 
The  music  of  the  stars,  the  sky,  the  sea, 

The  peaks,  the  plains, —  that  I  may  sing  aright; 
Then  will  I  wake  the  nations  with  a  song 
That  men  shall  hear  and  feel  and  ponder  long. 

NIAGARA 

Niagara,  sublime,  eternal,  grand, 
Rolling  thy  thunderous  torrent  ceaselessly ; 
Thou  art  one  drop  from  out  the  boundless  sea, 
That  resteth  in  the  hollow  of  God's  hand. 

LITTLE   THINGS 

There  is  no  blade  of  grass  but  has  some  power, 
And  silently  it  groweth,  hour  by  hour ; 
There  is  no  life,  however  mean  or  small 
But  addeth  something  to  God's  mighty  whole. 

47 


TO  AN  ARTIST  AT  HER  EASEL 

It  was  a  fair  October  day, 

The  distant  hills  were  gold  and  brown, 
And  yet  the  heavens  could  not  frown, 

Though  Summer's  joys  had  passed  away. 

Upon  the  grass  I  musing  lay, 
And  watched  an  artist's  magic  skill 
That  slowly  formed  a  distant  hill ; 

And,  in  my  heart  I  longed  to  say, 

If  thou  couldst  paint  the  eager  face, 
The  parted  lips,  the  fevered  brow, 
The  earnest  gaze  that  fronts  me  now, 

Thy  face  would  surely  grow  apace, 
I  swear  it  by  my  truthful  pen 
Thy  name  would  be  immortal  then. 

THE  HARVEST 

Behold  the  golden  fields  of  ripening  grain, 
The  fair  fruition  of  the  sun  and  rain, 

And  man's  poor  heritage  of  tears  and  cares. 

And  in  the  golden  grain  behold  the  tares ; 
Poor  human  tares, — 'tis  part  of  my  belief, — 
God  will  forget  and  bind  you  in  His  sheaf. 


SONG  OF  THE  ROBIN 

Upon  the  lofty  maple  tree 

I  hear  a  robin  singing  — 
His  rich  and  happy  melody 

Through  all  the  woods  is  ringing,— 
Cheer  up !   cheer  up !  all  things  clear  up, 
We  are  merry,  cherry !   cheery ! 

The  sun  has  slowly  sunk  to  rest, 
The  shades  of  night  are  falling; 

And  from  his  bough  beside  the  nest 
The  robin  still  is  calling, — 

Cheer  up !   cheer  up !   all  things  clear  up, 

We  are  merry,  cherry !   cheery ! 

Now  one  by  one  the  stars  appear, 
The  evening  winds  are  sighing 

And  robin's  song  of  hope  and  cheer 
Is  slowly,  gently  dying, — 

Cheer  up !   cheer  up !   all  things  clear  up, 

We  are  merry,  cherry!   cheery! 

The  deepest  shades  of  night  have  come 

And  robin's  song  is  ended, 
But  in  my  heart  with  doubt  and  gloom, 

His  hope  and  cheer  have  blended. 
Cheer  up !   cheer  up  !   all  things  clear  up,. 
We  are  merry,  cherry  !   cheery  ! 


49 


OCTOBER 

October  reigns  o'er  all  the  dreamy  hills — 
Awake  my  soul,  and  lift  thy  voice  in  praise, 
And  sing  the  glory  of  autumnal  days, 
And  voice  the  gladness  of  the  heart  that  thrills, 
When  to  the  brim  the  cup  of  nature  fills. 

Each  mountain  range  is  wrapped  in  dreamy  haze 
And  through  the  gentle  veil  the  sun's  bright  rays 
Are  half  subdued,  and  yet  the  power  that  chills 
On  vine  and  bush  has  set  its  seal  in  blood 
And  far  and  near  the  pennons  of  the  wood 
Stream  like  a  conflagration  to  the  sky ; 
Each  blade  and  leaf,  each  tiny  emerald  thing 
Unto  the  pyre  has  brought  its  offering 
And  laid  it  there  amid  the  flames  to  die. 


THE  LAST  FAIR  DAY 

It  was  the  last  fair  day  of  all  the  year, 
Halfway  between  the  realms  of  heat  and  cold, 
When  days  are  short  and  Boreas  is  bold 
And  summer  fields  and  woods  are  bare  and  sere ; 
But  all  that  there  was  left  of  warmth  and  cheer 
This  day  had  caught  within  its  fleecy  fold 
Of  summer  sky,  and  o'er  the  frozen  wold 
The  lancers  of  the  cold  fled  back  in  fear 


Oh !  how  the  glad  sun  warmed  the  frozen  earth, 
Making-  her  pulseless  heart  to  beat  again, 
Dancing  his  sunbeams  over  hill  and  plain 
Until  it  seemed  like  Summer's  second  birth, 
But  e'er  his  orb  had  even  time  to  dim 
The  night  and  cold  fell  like  a  pall  on  him. 

AUTUMNAL  HOPES 

In  dark  December  look  to  spring, 
And  learn  to  hear  the  robin  sing 

Upon  his  unbuilt  nest ; 
In  sorrow  teach  thy  lips  to  say — 
I  know  this  pain  will  pass  away, 

And  I  will  see  'twas  best. 


PEBBLES  AND  SHELLS 

TIME 

Time  is  a  bird  that  wings  with  ceaseless  flight 
Over  the  land,  nor  rests  by  day  or  night ; 
You  mark  its  form  against  the  sky  of  dawn 
Then  dream  apace,  and  night  comes  softly  on. 

THE    CLOVER    BLOSSOM 

Slender  and  pale,  and  hidden  in  the  grass, 
So  that  you  scarce  can  see  it  as  you  pass, 
The  clover  stands, — but  every  wild  bee  knows 
'Tis  sweeter  far  than  any  blushing  rose. 

ROILED 

The  placid  brooklet  ran  with  limped  flood  — 
The  angry  stream  grew   dark  with  sticks  and 

mud  — 

So  anger  darkens  e'en  the  brightest  face 
And  takes  from  fair  humanity  its  grace. 

A    LOVER 

The  honey-bee,  through  sunny  hours 
Goes  courting  all  the  sweetest  flowers, — 
Into  their  hearts  he  slyly  slips 
And  steals  sweet  nectar  from  their  lips. 

52 


NEW  ENGLAND  WINTER 

Faintly  the  feeble  sun  streamed  through  the  gray 
That  hung  the  heavens,  and  marked  the  waning 

day, 

Then  sank  from  sight ;   we  could  not  see  him  go, 
Only  a  sickly  streak  of  yellow  glow 
Revealed  his  path.       Then    fell   the  shades  of 

night,— 

But  not  as  they  are  wont,  with  silver  light 
From  peaceful  stars,  or  radiance  from  the  moon 
That  make  the  winter  night  more  fair  than 

noon ; 
But  with  dark  clouds  that  wrapped  the  fields  in 

gloom, 
Until  the  night  was  dark  as  Sodom's  doom. 

Then  woke  the  wild  wind  in  the  leafless  trees 
And  called  the  Frost  King  from  his  frozen  seas, 
And  hand  in  hand,  they  scoured  the  frozen 

earth, 
And  peeped   in  at  the  panes,  where   joy  and 

mirth 

Had  gathered  round  some  cosy  kitchen  hearth ; 
And  at  the  sight  the  wild  wind  roared  in  wrath, 
Awhile    the    bitter    Frost    King    tried    each 

crack, — 

But  soon  the  bright  fire  drove  him  panting 
back; 

53 


Yet  still  he  lingered  by  the  window  frame 

And  on  its  smooth  glass  wrote  his  mystic  name. 

Then  through  the  cellar  wall  went  creeping  in, 
To  nip  the  rosy  apples  in  their  bin, 
Or  freeze  the  golden  pumpkins  on  the  floor, 
With  spiteful  heart  to  spoil  the  winter  store ; 
But  ever  and  anon  conies  back  again 
To  peep  in  at  the  frosty  window  pane, 
And,  if  the  fire  upon  the  hearth  burns  low, 
He  creeps  into  the  room,  and  chills  it  so 
That  soon  the  revelers  draw  near  the  fire 
And  stir  the  coals  and  pile  the  fuel  higher. 
And  all  this  time,  the  wild  wind  shrieks  and 

groans, 

Or  bellows  down  the  chimney  top,  or  moans 
Among  the  trees,  or  with  a  sudden  roar, 
Comes  rudely  knocking  at  the  cottage  door. 
Thus  goes  the  night,  until  on  field  and  town, 
The  feathery  snow  comes  softly  sifting  down, 
Spreading  its  mantle  o'er  the  field  and  wood, 
Folding  the  earth  in  winter's  solitude. 

Then  morning  breaks,  and  on  the  young  day's 

cheek 

There  comes  a  flush  and  then  a  crimson  streak, 
And  soon  the  great  sun  shining  clear  and  bright 
Mounts   o'er  the   hills   and   floods   the  world 
with  light. 

54 


How  strange  the  scene, — the  winds  no  longer 

blow 

And  quiet  reigns ;  but  how  the  wind-tossed  snow 
Disguises  mother  earth,  until  things  seem 
To  be  transfigured  by  some  mystic  dream. 
The  firs  are  spotless  white  and  bending  low 
Beneath  their  heavy  load  of  new  made  snow ; 
The  regal  elm-trees  lift  their  mighty  arms, 
With  snow  and  frost  upon  their  leafless  palms 
And  stand  like  giants  in  the  morning  light, 
Their   shaggy  bark  half   showing  through  the 

white ; 
Each  fence  and  hedge  has  caught  the  feathery 

down— 

The  garden  gate-post  wears  a  regal  crown ; 
The  rose-bush  too,  is  loaded  by  the  storm, 
And  every  shrub  ha"s  changed  its  old  time  form. 

But  soon  the  heavy  teams,  with  boys  and  men, 

Will  come  to  break  the  drifted  roads  again 
And  pierce  the  deepest  drifts  and  pile  them  high 
And  let  the  merry  sleighing  party  by ; 

For  well  New  England  young  folks  love  the 
air, 

The  frost,  the  wind,  the  cold,  the  snow's  white 

glare 

And  all  the  bitter  cold  and  nipping  frost, 
But  lends  enchantment  to  the  merry  coast. 


55 


The  great  sun   wheels  his  course  and  night 

draws  near 
For  winter  days  are  short  though  sharp  and 

clear. 

Again  the  restless  wind  begins  to  moan 
Among  the  trees  in  cheerless  monotone 

And  shake    the   new   snow    from  the  loaded 

boughs 

And  fill  the  tracks  just  broken  by  the  plows. 
Swiftly  the  shadows  lengthen  o'er  the  snow 
And  one  one  by  one  the  constellations  show ; 
Then  night  comes  down  and  earth    fantastic 

lies 
Beneath  its  cold  star-gleaming  winter  skies. 

THE  WHIP-POOR-WILL 

The  soft,  deep  gloom  of  night  on  vale  and  hill 
Half  hid  the  glories  of  the  summer  skies, 
And  pearly  tears,  the  dewdrops  of  the  eyes, 
Obscured  the  dusky  forms  that  lingered  still. 
And  while  I  watched,  a  cry  pathetic,  shrill, 
As  'twere  the  voice  of  some  forgotten  wrong, 
With  three  sad  notes  the  burden  of  the  song 
Filled  all  the  night  with  strains  of  ' '  Whip-poor- 
will!  " 

A  simple  song  beside  the  lark's  mad  flight, 
A  worthless  song  of  wild,  rude  minstrelsy, 


But  those  three  notes  revealed  anew  to  me 
Life's  mystery,  its  breadth,  its  depth,  its  height — 
And  yet,  I  trow  he  heard  the  lark  that  day 
And  knew  he  sang  a  rude,  uncultured  lay. 

THE  FROZEN  STREAM 

The  cold  wind  swept  the  fields  and  forest  o'er 
And  all  the  little  leaves  came  fluttering  down, 
The  reeds  and  grasses  turned  to  sombre  brown 
And  robin's  happy  song  was  heard  no  more. 

The  little  streamlet  heard  the  wild  wind's  roar 
And  saw  the  azure  sky  grow  dark  with  dread ; 
Then  built  a  palace  for  his  houseless  head, 
And  sealed  it  tight  and  locked  the  crystal  door. 
Gay  colored  pebbles  formed  the  palace  floor, 
And  every  mystic  form  of  fairy  lore 
Was  fashioned  in  that  clear  transparent  dome. 

In  stormy  days  it  felt  no  winds  that  blew, 

In  sunny  hours  the  light  of  heaven  came  through 

To  cheer  the  little  streamlet  in  its  home. 

THE  FLICKER 

Gay  crested  tenant  of  the  deep  wild  woods, 
Oft  have  I  heard  thee  wake  these  solitudes 
Where   quiet  loves  to  dwell,  with  lightning 
stroke, 

57 


(Holding  with  clinging  claws  to  elm  or  oak,) 
Until  the  echoes  of  thy  sturdy  whacks 
Gave  back  a  sound  like  to  the  woodsman's  axe ; 

While  thou  didst  drive  thy  beak,  with  point  like 
steel, 

Deep  in  the  wood  to  find  thy  morning  meal. 

PICTURES  ON  THE  PANE 

The  frost  gnomes  came  one  Winter's  night 

While  slumber  held  its  grateful  reign, 

And  wrote  upon  my  window  pane ; 

Then  stole  away  with  morning  light. 

I  sought  to  read  the  scroll  aright 

Yet  had  no  art  to  understand 

The  meaning  of  so  strange  a  hand ; 

But  when  the  morning  sun  grew  bright, 

The  picture  melted  into  rain 

And  then  its  mystery  was  plain. 

It  was  a  symbol  of  man's  years, 

That  set  in  colors  seeming  fair, 

Beneath  life's  noonday  heat  and  glare 

Oft  proves  but  vanity  and  tears. 


WHY? 

Along  life's  walk  the  shadows  fall 
Because  the  world  is  full  of  light, 
And  if  the  world  was  not  so  bright 

The  shadows  would  not  come  at  all. 

THE  SUNSET 

Slowly  the  mighty  sun  with  'fulgent  ray 
Goes  sliding  down  into  the  crimson  west, 
Leaving  the  embers  of  the  dying  day 

Still  burning  where  the  ragged  cloud-rifts  rest ; 
Pauseth  a  moment  on  the  mountain's  line, 

vStaining  its  verdure  like  a  warrior's  breast, 
Then  sinks  from  sight,  and  mellow  after-shine 

Fringes  with  gold  the  crimson  snow  clouds' 

crest. 
Now  fades  the  gorgeous  glory  of  the  sky 

And  deep  cool  shadows  steal  o'er  vale  and  hill, 

Even  the  trembling  aspen's  leaf  is  still 

And  nothing  stirs  the  quiet  of  the  night 
Save  when  the  marsh-frog  pipes  his  shrilly  cry. 

Or  some  lone  night-bird  wings  his  whirring 
flight. 


59 


PEBBLES  AND  SHELLS 

THE    STARS 

The  stars  are  as  bright  in  the  heavens  to-night 
As  though  they  had  just  been  born, 
Instead  of  as  old  as  the  shimmering  light 
That  broke  on  creation's  morn. 

THE    BOBOLINK 

Deep  fountain  of  unstinted  song 
That  springs  and  gurgles  all  day  long, 
Thy  lilting  song  is  purest  art 
For  all  thy  strains  are  of  the  heart. 

FLORA'S  CALL 

Come  up,  come  up,  my  little  buds, 
The  snow  is  gone  and  spring  is  here. 
The  robin  sings  his  song  of  cheer 
And  you  must  grace  the  fields  and  woods. 

ARBUTUS 

Fair  fragrant  buds  that  nestle  in  the  grass 

And  hide  from  me  so  closely  as  I  pass, 

Thou  art  an  emblem  of  true  charity, 

That  bends  its  head  and  hides  that  none  may  see. 

60 


THE  NORTH  STAR 

Jewel  in  heaven,  where  all  rare  jewels  are, 
Night  after  night  thy  steady  glow  we-  see, 

Would  that  my  soul  might  find  for  it  a  star, 
So  fair,  so  bright,  so  full  of  constancy. 

A  WINTER'S  NIGHT 

It  is  a  cold  star-gleaming  Winter's  night  — 
All  things  are  ice-bound  like  the  frozen  mill— 
The  great  white  moon  comes  stalking  o'er  the  hill 
And  floods  the  scene  with  cold  unearthly  light ; 
The  leafless  trees  are  hung  with  jewels  bright 
And  every  twig  is  set  with  magic  skill 
And  fringed  with  frost  that  speaks  the  winter's 

chill ; 

The  darkling  pines  are  robed  in  spotless  white, 
Their  loaded  branches  nod  like  warriors'  plumes 
And  cast  their  shadows  in  the  forest's  glooms; 
Far  in  the  wood  with  melancholy  moan 
The  wind  awakes  its  cheerless  monotone 
Then  dies  away  and  all  is  cold  and  still. 


Down  from  the  frozen  clouds  fell  sleet  and  rain, 
Over  the  wintry  fields  and  forest  hoar 
The  wild  winds  swept  with  melancholy  roar, 

Awhile  the  frost  bedecked  the  window  pane ; 

61 


At  morn  the  sun  resumed  his  tranquil  reign, 
The  fair  earth  smiled  through  all  her  frozen 

tears 

And  Winter's  face  revealed  his  secret  fears. 
How  gorgeous  was  the  scene, —  each   field  and 

lane 
Was   paved  with  purest  pearls  and  sparkling 

gems, 

The  darkling  furs  were  hung  with  diadems, 
And  every  leafless  vine  was  fringed  with  frost ; 
While   Phoebus'  rays   on   ice  gems  strangely 

made 

Revealed  their  rainbow  hues ;   all  without  cost 
The  walks  of  earth  like  heaven's  streets  were 
laid. 

A  HAVEN 

My  life  was  launched  upon  a  stormy  sea, 
Without  a  pilot  for  its  shallow  bark, 
To  front  the  storm,  the  lightnings,  and  the  dark, 
The  winds  and  tides  that  breed  adversity 
And  batter  with  the  waves  unceasingly. 
And  I  have  fought  the  elements  until 
The  restless  sea  has  worn  away  my  will, 
E'en  as  it  wears  the  rocks,  and  conquered  me ; 
And  now  whene'er  a  lighthouse  lifts  its  form 
Above  the  outline  of  the  dreamy  coast 
While  my  poor  bark  is  rudely  tempest  tossed, 


I  long  to  shield  me  from  the  cruel  storm 
In  some  fair  haven  by  the  peaceful  shore 
To  cast  an  anchor  till  life's  storms  are  o'er. 

"  THE  CIRCLE  OF  THE  GOLDEN  YEAR" 

JANUARY 

The  earth  is  white,  the  air  is  sharp  and  clear, 
When  joyous  bells  ring  in  the  glad  New  Year ; 
With  all  its  joy  and  grief,  the  old  year's  out — 
We  look  not  back,  but  welcome  with  a  shout 
The  glad  New  Year,  for  all  its  days  are  ours 
To    live,  to    strive,  and  prove  our    manhoods' 
powers. 

FEBRUARY 

But  when  the  days  begin  to  show  their  length, 

Then  winter  hoar  puts  forth  his  utmost  strength  ; 

Then  deeper,  and  still  deeper,  falls  the  snow, 

And  fiercer,  and  still  fiercer  wild  winds  blow, 

Until  the  fields  and  woods  are  piled  with  drifts 

And  scarce  a  day  the  leaden  storm  cloud  lifts. 

MARCH 

In  March  the  Winter's  last  wild  throes  are  seen, 
With  days  of  sunlight  coming  in  between — 
A  strange  commingling  blast  of  heat  and  cold 
And  howling  winds  that  sweep  the  barren  wold, 
The  bleakest  month  of  all  the  varied  year, 
But,  at  its  close,  the  bare  brown  hills  appear. 

63 


APRIL 

Then    April   comes   with     sunshine    and    with 
showers 

To  start  the  buds  and  wake  the  sleeping  flowers. 
Along  the  fields  there  comes  a  touch  of  green — 
Upon  the  trees  the  bursting  buds  are  seen, 

And  bluebirds  bright,  with  robins  blithely  sing 

And  all  things  feel  the  thrilling  touch  of  spring. 

MAY 

In  May  we  tread  again  the  pleasant  woods 
And  search  the  fields  for  sweet  arbutus  buds ; 
'Tis  then  the  shad  puts  on  its  spotless  sheen 
And  daffodils  and  adder-tongues  are  seen  — 
The  orchards,  too,  are  radiant  with  bloom 
And  all  the  air  is  filled  with  sweet  perfume. 

JUNE 

Oh !   June,     thou  month    of   joy  and  love   and 

peace 
Of  boundless  skies  soft  flecked  with   clouds  of 

fleece, 

Of  balmy  winds  that  whisper  of  content — 
With  hedge  and  lawn  and  garden  radiant 
With  all  the  sweetest,  fairest  flowers  that  blow — 
Oh !   June,  dear  June !  how  can  I  let  thee  go? 


JULY 

When  July  comes  the  broad  and  fertile  plain 
Afar  and  near  is  rich  with  waving  grain, 

With  wheat   and  oats    and  fields  of  nodding 

rye 
And    growing   corn    with    streamers   waving 

high  — 

While  from  the  hayfield  comes  the  noisy  song 
Of  cutter-bar  and  tedder  all  day  long. 

AUGUST 

When  August  comes  with  cloudless  brazen  sky 
Then  oft  the  fragile  flowerets  droop  and  die, 

And  e'en  the   fresh   maize   curls  its  verdant 
leaves 

Yet  gives  a  promise  of  the  golden  sheaves  — 
And  all  the  birds  like  revellers  grow  merry 
On  garden  fruit  and  many  a  luscious  berry. 

SEPTEMBER 

The  summer  grain  has  all  been  harvested 
And  stowed  away  in  mow  and  loft  and  shed 
The  corn  is  in  the  shock   and  golden  fruit 
Is  ripe  upon  the  trees,  and  vine  and  root 
Have  yielded  up  their  yearly  offering, 
And  well  redeemed  the  promises  of  spring. 


OCTOBER 

Soft  hazy  skies  o'erarch  the  dreamy  world 
When  Autumn's  gorgeous  pennon  is  unfurled, 
It  almost  seems  that  June  is  here  again 
So  deep  the  joy  that  fills  the  heart  and  brain— 
And  then  there  comes  the  falling  of  a  leaf, 
Though  slight  the  sound  it  stirs  the  heart  with 
grief. 

NOVEMBER 

Sad  melancholy  month,  with  tearful  skies, 
When  all  the  glad  earth's  verdure  smitten  lies  — 
When   all   the   happy   birds  have  southward 

flown 
And  through  the  leafless  trees  the  shrill  winds 

moan, 

Whistling  a  requiem  for  Nature's  dead, 
Filling  the  mournful  skies  with  clouds  like  lead. 

DECEMBER 

Earth's  sombre  garb  is  soft  with  new  made  snow 
When  Christmas  brings  the  thoughts  of  long  ago ; 
Upon  the  cheerful  hearth  the  Yule-log  glows 
And  though   the   skies  be  dark   with   falling 

snows 

It  throws  no  shade  upon  the  Christmas  glee, 
For  Christ  is  King  and  reigns  from  sea  to  sea. 

66 


POEMS   OF   WAR   AND 
PATRIOTISM 


HOW  "FIGHTING  JOE  HOOKER"  TOOK 
LOOKOUT    MOUNTAIN 

Know  you  the  tale  of  a  battle  won 

Some  thirty  years  ago, 
On  a  mountain  top,  when  the  Autumn  sun 

In  the  west  was  sinking  low  ? 

It  was  a  fight  that  the  watching  throng 

Were  destined  not  to  see, 
For  the  men  went  up  five  thousand  strong 

Under  the  canopy 

Of  God's  free  sky,  through  the  fleecy  clouds 

That  overhung  the  plain, 
And  the  eager  eyes  of  the  watchful  crowds 

Strained  after  them  in  vain. 

'Twas  like  a  storm  on  a  darksome  night  — 

This  battle  in  the  clouds, 
With  the  thunder's  roll  and  the  leven's  light 

Among  the  mountain's  shrouds. 

The  sky  was  dark  on  that  Autumn  day 

The  air  was  damp  and  cold, 
But  the  fields  and  woods  in  their  mantle  lay 

Of  crimson  and  of  gold ; 

Fresh  laurel  grew  on  the  mountain's  side 

Among  the  evergreen 
And  the  granite  rocks  with  the  verdure  vied 

To  beautify  the  scene. 
69 


They  come — they  come  o'er  the  verdant  plain 

With  flags  but  not  with  drum, 
By  the  broad  highway  and  the  narrow  lane, 

They  come,  they  come,  they  come ! 

They  round  the  base  of  the  mountain  tall, 

Unnoticed  by  the  foe, 
On  the  southern  side  of  its  rugged  wall 

They  stand  to  strike  the  blow. 

"  Advance !  my  boys,"  is  the  clear  command 

It  comes  from  "  Fighting  Joe," 
And  the  men  go  up  to  the  Rebels'  stand, 

As  only  patriots  go. 

They  climb  the  rocks  and  the  frowning  cliffs 

Like  Sparta's  patriotic  sons, 

And  they  scale  the  steep  through   the   friendly 
rifts 

Up  to  the  Rebel  guns. 

Then  fell  a  blight  like  the  breath  of  Hell, 

Out  of  the  mountain  banks, 
With  a  storm  of   lead  and  a  Rebel  yell 

They  fell  upon  our  ranks ; 

We  drove  them  back  up  the  mountain  walls, 

And  gave  them  shot  for  shot, 
Till  the  air  was  filled  with  our  shrieking  balls 

And  e'en  the  winds  were  hot. 


The  battle  raged  for  a  bloody  hour, 

And  neither  had  the  best, 
Till  just  as  the  night  was  beginning  to  lower, 

When  Hooker  gained  the  crest. 

He   swept   the  foe  from  the  mountain's  crown, 

And  on  its  utmost  crag, 
Just  as  the  radiant  sun  went  down, 

Planted  the  starry  flag. 

A  moment  more  and  our  signal  gun 

Woke  echoes  in  the  glen, 
And  the  army  knew  that  the  fight  was  won 

By  Hooker's  gallant  men. 

A  PRISONER  IN  CHAINS 

In  prison  and  in  chains  he  stands, 
Within  a  dark  and  narrow  cell, 
And  many  sentries  guard  him  well, 
But  they  have  only  bound  his  hands  — 
His  spirit  moves  a  thousand  clans, 
His  glory  gleams  on  shining  shields, 
A  mighty  kingdom  quakes  and  reels, 
And  freedom  shouts  in  tyrant  lands. 

Such  is  the  power  of  noble  deeds, 
That  where  one  soul  for  freedom  dies 
A  thousand  steel-clad  warriors  rise, 
To  follow  where  the  martyr  leads. 

71 


The  clanging  of  one  prison  chain 
Oft  breaks  a  mighty  despot's  reign. 

THE  LIVING  DEAD 

When  Freedom  calls  for  heroes  in  her  cause 
And  all  the  air  is  ringing  with  applause, 
To  charge  the  foe,  e'en  to  the  cannon's  breath, 
And  there  lay  down  thy  life  is  noblest  death. 

When  thou  art  dead  to  all  that  life  can  give, 
To  take  thy  place  within  the  ranks  and  live 
And  move  as  others  do,  is  nobler  far, 
And  on  the  soul  it  leaves  a  deeper  scar  — 

There  thou  wert  dead  and  all  thy  glory  shone, 
Here  thou  art  dead,  and  e'en  thy  death  unknown. 

HOW  MASSA  LINKUM   CAME 

You  chillun  ebber  hear  me  tell 

About  ole  Richmond  town  ; 
How  'fore  de  closement  ob  de  war 

De  Linkum  troops  came  down? 

I  tell  you,  chilluns,  dem  was  days 

Ole  Moses  don't  forget, 
Though   thirty   years  hab  trabbled  by 

I  feel  that  'sperence  yet. 

72 


Dat  time  de  Linkum  sojers  come 

A  marchin'  up  the  street, 
Wid  all  dar  regermentums  on 

An'  music  mighty  sweet. 

Den  how  de  darkies  shouted  loud 

"  De  Juberlee  hab  come !  " 
An'  how  de  chilluns  peel  dar  eyes 

To  see  de  big  base  drum. 

Den  how  de  sojers  marched  along, 
Dar  muskets  gleamin'  bright, 

An'  how  de  music  made  us  feel 
Right  pow'ful  for  de  fight. 

But  what  I  gwine  to  tell  dis  crowd's 

How  Massa  Linkum  came, 
De  man  dat  made  your  mammies  free 

By  signin'  ob  his  name. 

How  'fore  he  brought  de  army  down 

He  dun  come  down  to  see 
How  Richmond  looked  and  try  to  find 

What  come  ob  Massa  Lee. 

One  day  we  heard  it  whispered  round 
Mars  Linkum's  comin'  here ; 

An'  Massa  Davis  heard  it  too, 
An'  dat's  what  make  him  clear. 


73 


De  news  had  come  mysterious  — 
We  didn't  think  'twas  true, 

But  I  was  jes  a  watchin'  out 
With  nothin'  much  to  do. 

It  was  de  blessed  Sabbath  morn, 
De  ribber  sparklin  bright, 

An'  all  de  country  fresh  an'  green 
An'  smilin'  in  de  light. 

An'  I  was  sittin'  on  de  warves 
Jes  where  de  sun  came  down, 

A  gazin'  at  the  distant  hills 
Beyond  the  sleepy  town, 

When  down  de  ribber  far  away 

I  see  a  little  smoke, 
An'  on  de  air  so  strangely  still 

A  tug  boat  screechin'  broke. 

Dat  didn't  'sturb  me, — not  at  all 
Dat  squeelin'  ribber  brat ; 

Dat  not  de  way  Mars  Linkum  come, 
He  make  more  noise  den  dat. 

But  bye  and  bye  dat  tug  boat  came 

An'  bunted  at  the  wharf 
An'  den  I  saw  fo'  genelums 

Make  ready  to  get  off. 

74 


Dey  came  a  walkin'  up  de  plank 

A  kinder  lookin'  roun' 
Like  dey  was  strangers  in  de  place 

An'  didn't  know  de  town. 

Dey  was  a  right  smart  lookin'  crowd, 

I  didn't  mind  'em  all, 
But  one  had  gold  upon  his  coat, 

An'  one  was  mighty  tall. 

But  pretty  soon  dey  comes  along 

Right  near  to  where  I  sat, 
An'  one  ob  dem  steps  up  to  me 

A  liftin'  ob  his  hat ; 

"  Hallo,  Uncle  Tom,"  the  gemmun  said, 
"  How  would  you  like  to  see 
The  President  ob  dis  great  land 
The  man  who  made  you  free?  " 

"  See  Massa  Linkum !   sah,"  I  said, 
"  My  eyes  a  growin'  dim, 
Ob  all  de  men  de  Lord  has  made 
I'd  rudder  look  at  him." 

"  Well, —  dar  he  is," —  de  gemmun  said, 

I  saw  de  man  he  meant  — 
De  tallest  one  upon  de  right, 
He  was  de  President. 


75 


I  'low  dat  statement  took  me  back, 

A  moment  I  was  dumb, 
An'  then  I  shouted,  "  Hallelujah! 

Massa  Linkum's  come!  " 

You  better  bet  dey  heard  dat  yell  — 

I  fotched  it  long  and  loud, 
An"  in  a  moment  more  de  street 

Was  swarmin*  wid  de  crowd ; 

An'  ebery  chile  took  up  de  cry 
An'  shouted —  "  Kingdom  come  ! 

Hallelujah !  hallelujah ! 
Massa  Linkum's  come !  " 

An'  ebery  moment  dat  went  by 

De  shoutin'  grew  more  loud. 
An'  roun'  dem  four  de  darkies  swarmed 

As  thick  as  dey  could  crowd. 

An'  in  de  midst  ob  all  dat  throng, 

A  smilin'  his  consent, 
A  lookin'  mighty  grand  and  tall, 

Still  stood  de  President. 

'Twas  just  about  dat  time,  I  guess, 

'Long  come  old  Parson  Jake; 
He  made  his  way  right  through  de  crowd 

A  swingin'  ob  a  rake. 

76 


Right  up  to  Massa  Linkum's  side 
Dat  no-count  Parson  came, 

A  bowin'  like  a  turkey-cock 
An'  callin'  him  by  name. 

He  shook  de  President  by  de  hand, 

An'  den  I  heard  him  say : 
"  We're  mighty  glad  dat  you  hab  come, 
Mars  Linkum, —  let  us  pray." 

I  tell  you  chillun,  I  was  scared 

For  our  ole  Parson  den, 
To  hear  him  talkin'  dat  a  way 

To  such  official  men. 

I  spec'  Mars  Linkum  dun  get  mad 

An'  knock  dat  nigger  flat, 
Or  mebbe  kick  him  in  de  shins, 

Or  smash  his  Sunday  hat. 

But  Massa  Linkum  only  smiled 

At  what  dat  Parson  said, 
An'  took  his  big  tall  beaver  off 

An'  den  bowed  down  his  head. 

Den  Parson  Jake,  he  knelt  right  down 

Upon  dat  dirty  street, 
An'  prayed  a  pra'r  dat  fairly  took 

Dis  nigger  off  his  feet. 

77 


He  t'anked  de  Lord  dat  he  had  seen 

Our  sorrow  and  distress, 
An'  brought  us  up,  all  safe  an'  sound, 

Out  ob  de  Wilderness. 

Dat  he  had  sent  Mars  Linkum  round 

To  lead  us  in  de  dark, 
To  part  de  Jordan's  rushing  wave 

An'  smite  de  solid  rock. 

He  prayed  de  Lord  to  bless  dis  land, 
De  white  folks  an'  de  black, 

An'  send  de  dove  of  peace  around 
An'  bring  ole  Massa  back. 

He  axed  de  Lord  to  bless  de  men 
Who  fought  to  free  de  slaves, 

He  prayed  de  Lord  to  comfort  dem 
Down  where  de  cotton  waves. 

I  b'lieve  he  prayed  for  ebryting 

In  dis  here  blessed  land. 
Wid  Massa  Linkum  standin'  by, 

A  bowin'  thar  so  grand. 

De  pickaninnies  stood  so  still 
You  t'ink  dey  made  o'  stone, 

Dey  didn't  speak,  nor  move,  nor  breeve 
Until  dat  pra'r  was  done ; 

78 


An'  den  dey  broke  into  a  shout 

Dat  mought  hab  woke  John  Brown, 

An'  cheered  until  I  t'ink  de  noise 
Would  bring  de  heabens  down. 

An'  Massa  Linkum  waved  his  hand 

In  answer  to  dem  cheers ; 
His  countenance  was  shinin'  bright 

His  cheeks  were  wet  wid  tears. 

"  De  Lord  forgive  an'  bless  us  all, — 

De  libin'  an'  de  dead, 
An'  bring  sweet  peace  unto  de  land  —  " 
Mars  Linkum  husky  said. 

"  An'  make  de  norf  an'  souf  as  one 

An'  wipe  away  dar  tears 
An'  fill  de  nation  wid  his  love 
Thro'  all  de  comin'  years." 

An'  while  he  spoke  he  stretched  his  han's 

Above  dat  'cited  crowd ; 
I  knowed  de  Lord  would  hear  dat  pra'r,  — 

I  tell  you  we  was  proud. 

An'  den  de  fo'  went  up  de  street 

To  music  ob  de  band, 
An'  all  de  darkies  marchin'  wid 

De  President  ob  de  land. 


79 


An'  dat's  de  story  ob  de  way 
Dat  Massa  Linkum  come, 

Widout  de  marchin'  ob  de  troops, 
Or  beatin'  ob  de  drum. 

An'  tho*  black  Mose  is  growin'  ole, 
An'  foolish  some  folks  say ; 

He  don't  forget  de  t'ings  he  saw 
Dat  wondrous  Sabbath  day. 


LA  GILLOTINE 

I  see  a  square  where  that  dread  engine  stands, 
And  gathered  round  a  cruel  vengeful  throng, 
Made  blind  by  centuries  of  want  and  wrong 
To  truth  and  right,  with  blood  upon  their  hands. 
Amid  the  throng  one  noble  figure  stands, 
With  regal  form  and  features  clear  and  strong, 
Indifferent  to  curses  deep,  and  long 
Heaped  on  her  head  by  Paris'  motly  bands. 
A  moment  e'er  she  dies  she  lifts  her  head 
To  view  the  form  of  liberty  that  cries 
Eternally  to  God  against  man's  lies ; 
The  whole  world  knows  the  glowing  words  she 

said. 

O  liberty !  unto  thy  holy  name 
What  crimes  are  linked  to  hide  their  burning 

shame. 

80 


REVEILLE  SONG 

The  soldier  slept  in  his  guarded  tent, 

The  night  was  nearly  done, 
The  twinkling  stars  in  the  firmament 

Were  fading  one  by  one ; 
He  dreamed  of  home  and  his  waiting  wife. 

And  heaved  a  long  drawn  breath, 
Of  the  battlefield  and  its  sick'ning  strife 

And  agonies  of  death.  — 

Awake !   awake  !   'tis  the  warning  drum, 
Fall  into  line,  for  the  foemen  come. 
Awake  !   awake !   'tis  the  warning  drum  ; 
Fall  into  line,  for  the  foemen  come. 

The  soldier  wakes  with  a  sudden  start 

And  reaches  for  his  gun, 
'Midst  crashing  shell  and  shrieking  shot 

He  fights  till  day  is  done. 
At  set  of  sun,  on  the  slippery  banks, 

Pierced  by  a  score  of  balls, 
The  foremost  man  in  the  foremost  ranks, 

The  brave  young  soldier  falls. 

Charge  on  !   charge  on  !   is  the  stirring  cry, 
The  day  is  won,  for  the  foemen  fly. 
Charge  on  !   charge  on !   is  the  stirring  cry ; 
The  day  is  won,  for  the  foemen  fly. 


81 


The  soldier  sleeps  in  "  his  low  green  tent," 

Encoffined  in  the  mold, 
The  selfsame  stars  in  the  firmament 

Are  shining  as  of  old. 
The  same  dear  flag  that  he  loved  so  well 

Above  him  still  doth  wave, 
And  the  sweet  wild  rose  and  the  asphodel 

Are  growing  on  his  grave. 

Asleep,  asleep,  is  the  soldier  there, 
And  he'll  not  wake  for  a  martial  air. 
Asleep,  asleep,  is  the  soldier  there 
And  he'll  not  wake  for  a  martial  air. 

The  soldier  wakes  with  a  sudden  thrill, 

The  reveille  of  God 
Has  sounded  forth  from  the  throned  hills 

And  burst  the  matted  sod. 
An  Angel  read  from  the  records  then 

On  leaves  of  flaming  gold, 
They  gave  their  lives  for  their  fellow  men, 

As  Jesus  did  of  old. 

Abide  with  me,  is  the  Lord's  reply, 

And  dwell  for  aye  with  the  saints  on  high^ 

Abide  with  me,  is  the  Lord's  reply, 

And  dwell  for  aye  with  the  saints  on  high. 


THAT  LAST  WILD  CHARGE  AT 
GETTYSBURG! 

That  last  wild  charge  to  scale  the  height  — 
It  was  a  grand,  yet  awful  sight ! 

Though  thirty  years  have  passed  away, 

It  seems  to  me  but  yesterday  — 
That  hour  we  stood  on  gory  banks 
And  watched  Lee's  gray-clad  gleaming  ranks 

Charge  out  across  the  peaceful  plain, 

From  whence  they  turned  not  back  again. 

Fair  Gettysburg  lies  far  below, 
Beside  the  creeks  still  peaceful  flow, 

Upon  the  meadows  o'er  the  way 

The  harvesters  are  making  hay, 
And  low  of  cattle  from  the  hills 
And  liquid  laughter  from  the  rills 

And  song  of  bird  from  near  and  far 
Sound  not  like  harbingers  of  war. 

Out  of  the  South,  with  roll  of  drum, 
The  blue  and  gray-clad  armies  come, 
Creeping  along  in  silent  files, 
Marching  abreast  for  sixty  miles, 
Watching  each  other  day  and  night  — 
Watching  and  waiting  for  the  fight. 

Thus  came  they  when  the  sun  went  down, 
And  camped  about  the  little  town. 

83 


Three  weary  days,  from  height  to  height, 
The  battle  rolled  from  morn  till  night ; 
Three  dreary  days  the  cannon's  breath 
Belched  forth  its  messengers  of  death, 
Till  earth  and  sky  grew  dark  with  dread 
And  many  thousand  men  lay  dead  — 
Then  silently  the  remnant  gray 
Closed  up  its  ranks  and  stole  away. 

'Twas  on  the  third  day  "  Charge !"  was  said  — 
The  day  that  last  wild  charge  was  led ; 

They  fired  no  shot  from  ten  till  one, 

Each  gunner  rested  on  his  gun ; 
A  breathless  hush  and  a  deathlike  calm 
Foretold  the  coming  of  the  storm. 

Then  like  some  mighty  tidal  crest 
That  rises  high  above  the  rest 

And  madly  dashes  on  the  shore 

With  thund'rous  shock  and  deaf'ning  roar, 
There  rose  a  mighty  sea  of  men 
Where  peaceful  fields  of  grain  had  been, 

And  half  the  Southern  army  wheeled 

And  charged  across  the  quiet  field. 

They  shook  the  ridges  with  their  yells  — 
We  could  not  hear  their  bursting  shells  — 

They   ploughed   our  breastworks   with   their 
shot  — 

84 


The  July  air  grew  thick  and  hot — 
They  strewed  the  hillside  with  our  dead; 
They  shook  the  vale  with  thund'rous  tread ; 
And  yet  no  answer  from  the  hill, 
Our  grinning  guns  were  deathly  still. 

But  when  the  Rebel  line  swept  down 

Upon  the  road  that  led  to  town, 
The  Union  rank  its  silence  broke 
And  every  frowning  cannon  spoke. 

I've  seen  the  forked  lightning's  play 
Until  the  night  was  bright  as  day ; 

I've  heard  the  dreaded  thunder's  wrath 
That  seemed  to  shake  the  very  earth. 
Then  like  the  lightning's  blinding  flash, 
Then  like  the  thunder's  deaf'ning  crash, 
Three  hundred  cannons'  vengeful  ire 
Burst  forth  in  shot  and  shell  and  fire. 

A  mighty  flame  lit  earth  and  sky  — 

I  saw  a  host  of  heroes  die  — 

I  heard  the  crash  of  shattered  steel  — 
I  felt  the  boulders  rock  and  reel ; 

Then  all  the  scene  grew  black  as  night, 

As  hotter,  fiercer  grew  the  fight. 

'Midst  sick'ning  smoke  and  flying  sand, 
The  dead  so  thick  we  scarce  could  stand, 

'Midst  solid  shot  and  bursting  shell 


85 


And  every  horror  known  in  hell, 

We  fought  as  men  ne'er  fought  before 
And  turned  the  tide  of  cruel  war. 

As  darkness  flees  at  break  of  day, 

As  every  tempest  dies  away, 

So  ceased  the  storm  on  hill  and  plain, 
The  fall  of  leaden  sleet  and  rain. 

Then  came  a  gentle  evening  breath 

And  kissed  the  fevered  fields  of  death, 
And  blew  aside  the  friendly  screen 
And  showed  us  where  the  fight  had  been. 

We  saw  no  shattered  army  then, 

With  broken  lines  of  flying  men ; 
We  heard  no  sound  of  rushing  feet, 
Of  scattered  corps  in  wild  retreat ; 

We  saw  no  banner  rise  and  fall, 

We  heard  no  drum  or  bugle  call, 
Only  a  crimson  field  instead, 
With  an  endless  stretch  of  sleeping  dead, 

The  Southern  army  widely  slain, 

Gone  like  a  leaf  in  the  hurricane. 

All  honor  to  the  charge  they  made ! 

All  glory  to  the  men  who  stayed 

That  fearless  charge,  with  a  fearless  stand 
For  Freedom  and  their  native  land ! 

We  praise  them  with  our  mingled  cheers, 


86 


We  grieve  them  with  our  mingled  tears,- 
And  a  nation  springs  to  the  bugle  call, 
And  the  starry  flag  floats  over  all. 

God  grant  that  this  may  ever  be 

The  land  of  love  and  liberty, 

And  that  Old  Glory's  stripe  and  star 
Shall  ne'er  again  be  raised  in  war ! 

REBEL  AND  PATRIOT 

A  hero  rose  in  armor  bright 
To  drive  a  tyrant  from  the  land ; 
The  monarch  brought  his  armed  band 
And  crushed  him  in  a  single  fight, 
And  wrong  still  triumphed  over  right. 
The  rebel  died,  his  honored  name 
Was  branded  with  a  traitor's  shame. 
Another  rose  in  greater  might, 
With  dauntless  men  at  his  command 
And  drove  the  tyrant  from  the  land. 
The  people  cheered  the  noble  deed, 
And  placed  the  crown  upon  his  head, 
The  crown  of  him  who  first  had  bled 
In  freedom's  cause  and  sown  the  seed. 


WHO  WON  MARENGO 

Slow  the  burning  sun  was  waning 
Where  Napoleon's  line  had  reeled, 

Where  the  blood  of  France  was  staining 
All  the  verdure  of  the  field ; 

Where  her  bravest  sons  were  lying, 
Piled  in  heaps  of  mangled  dead, 

And  the  moaning  of  the  dying 

Filled  the  air  with  sounds  of  dread ; 

Where  the  muskets'  furious  rattle 
Never  ceased,  and  cannon  frowned, 

And  the  din  and  shock  of  battle 
Shook  the  earth  for  miles  around ; 

There  the  Corsican  had  blundered, 

And  his  army  was  undone, 
And  the  Teuton's  guns  had  thundered, 

And  the  Austrian  had  won. 

There  with  all  her  army  scattered 
By  the  whirlwind  of  the  fray, 

And  with  half  her  legions  shattered 
France  had  surely  lost  the  day. 

And  her  great  commander  madly 

Raving  at  this  first  defeat, 
Said  unto  his  drummer  sadly, 
"Victor,  beat  the  quick  retreat." 

88 


•"  O  my  General,  I  have  never 

Beat  that  shameful  strain  before, 
At  the  touch  my  drum  would  wither, 
Let  me  sound  the  charge  once  more." 

"  Who  would  answer  to  the  summons?" 

Then  Napoleon  hotly  said, 
' '  Where  are  all  my  boasted  legions  ? 

They  are  scattered,  they  are  dead." 

"  If  I  call  them  they  will  rally, 

They  are  patriots,  they  are  men, 
They  will  come  from  hill  and  valley, 
Let  me  call  them  once  again." 

And  these  words  from  one  so  daring, 
One  so  young,  yet  truly  brave, 

Put  to  shame  the  heart  despairing, 
And  resistless  courage  gave. 

*'  Sound  the  charge!"  the  general  thundered, 
"  Let  us  rally,  all  who  can," 
And  the  Austrian  foemen  wondered 
At  the  daring  of  the  man. 

But  the  French  along  the  valley 

Raised  the  cry  of  Bonaparte, 
And  they  rallied  to  the  sally 

With  new  courage  and  new  heart. 

"Victor  led  them  to  the  breastworks, 
Up  the  banks  they  saw  him  climb, 


And  the  rolling  of  his  drumsticks 
To  the  double  quick  kept  time. 

Who  could  see  him  and  not  follow? 

O'er  the  works  the  Frenchmen  swept, 
And  that  last  mad  charge  of  Marlow 

Long  in  Austria  was  wept ; 

For  it  turned  the  tide  of  battle, 
And  it  filled  the  foe  with  dread, 

And  the  rest,  like  frightened  cattle, 
O'er  the  hills  and  valleys  fled. 

Then  they  sought  the  little  drummer 
Who  had  led  the  charge  so  well, 

In  the  lightnings  and  the  glamour, 
E'en  into  the  mouth  of  hell. 

On  the  works  they  found  him  lying,. 

There  beside  his  riddled  drum, 
Where  the  mangled  dead  and  dying 

Made  the  heart  with  pity  numb. 

He  the  bravest  of  those  heroes, 

With  his  face  turned  towards  the  foe,. 

Dead  to  all  life's  joys  and  sorrows, 
Gone  where  such  brave  spirits  go. 

Filled  with  grief  and  tender  pity, 
To  the  strains  of  Marseillaise, 


90 


Then  they  bore  him  to  the  city 

Where  the  air  was  rife  with  praise. 

There  they  left  him  and  the  people 
Laid  him  in  a  soldier's  grave, 

Close  beside  St.  Martin's  steeple, 
Where  his  country's  banners  wave. 

And  they'll  not  forget  the  story 

Until  Pity  dries  her  tears, 
And  the  head  of  Time  grows  hoary 

With  the  burden  of  the  years. 


OUR  FLAG 

Red  for  the  life  blood  that  freely  was  given 
To   shield  our   bright   banner   when   infamy 

came ; 
White   for  the  nation  that  purged  her  dark 

shame, 
Blue  for  her  heroes,  a  symbol  of  heaven. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  BUNKER  HILL 

On  June  seventeenth,  in  "  seventy- five," 
Old  Boston's  streets  were  all  alive 

With  those  who,  waking,  heard  the  gun 
That  first  was  fired  at  Lexington. 

91 


Old  men  and  matrons  thronged  the  street 

With  gallant  youths  and  maidens  sweet, 
And  all  the  children  too  were  there, 
With  rosy  cheeks  and  golden  hair, 

Gay  mingling  with  the  shouting  throng 

That  cheered  the  soldiery  along 

Old  Boston's  narrow,  winding  street, 
In  rhythm  to  the  drum  that  beat 

And  clarion  fife  that  flung  afar 

The  bold,  defiant  strains  of  war ; 
For  every  settlement  and  town 
From  all  the  colonies  around 

Had  sent  its  band  of  minute  men 

To  fight  the  hated  red-coat  then. 
Like  to  a  day  of  perfect  peace 
That  morning's  sun  illumed  the  east, 

Far  out  upon  the  tranquil  bay 

Flung  wide  the  golden  gates  of  day 
And  hurled  its  shafts  of  rosy  light 
Against  the  legions  of  the  night ; 

And  Jiine  looked  down  with  happy  eyes 

From  out  the  azure  of  her  skies, 

And  nature  smiled  from  field  and  wood  — 
Alas!   to  stain  such  scenes  with  blood. 

When  General  Howe  that  morning  bent 
His  gaze  upon  the  hill  intent, 

His  swarthy  visage  wore  a  frown; 

He  brought  his  clinched  fist  fiercely  down 
92 


Upon  the  vessel's  rail,  and  swore 
That  e'er  the  breaking  day  was  o'er 
He'd  blow  the  rebel  works  in  air 
And  float  the  British  ensign  there. 
Within  the  town,  on  roofs  and  towers, 
An  anxious  throng  since  early  hours 
Had  eager  watched  the  new  made  fort 
And  fearful  scanned  the  ships  in  port. 
All  through  the  morn,  with  irate  will, 
The  cannon  thundered  at  the  hill ; 

They  wreathed  the  vessels  in  their  smoke 
And  hard  and  bitter  words  they  spoke ; 
But  half  their  shots  flew  wide  the  mark 
And  others  sank  in  sand  and  rock, 
So  scarce  a  dozen  men  were  harmed, 
Though  long  and  fierce  the  frigates  stormed. 

But  when  the  noon-day  sun  looked  down 

Upon  the  harbor  and  the  town, 
He  saw  a  score  of  loaded  boats, 
Red  with  the  Britons'  crimson  coats, 

Pulled  by  the  sturdy  British  oar 

Up  to  the  hostile  Charlestown  shore. 

They  formed  their  men  in  solid  ranks.. 

And  slow  advanced  upon  the  banks 
Where  cowering  low,  the  rebels  lay, 
In  doubt  and  fear,  an  easy  prey ; 


93 


Yet  paused  half  way  to  fire  a  volley, 

To  show  the  traitor  horde  its  folly. 
But  from  the  hill  came  no  report, 
And  all  was  silence  in  the  fort. 

Now,  scarce  two  hundred  feet  between, 

But  not  a  patriot  gun  is  seen. 
What !   cowers  the  free-born  English  heart 
At  tyranny  without  a  shot? 

But  look !  the  flame,  the  cloud,  the  rent ! 

The  peal  that  lifts  the  firmament, 
As  darker  grows  the  cloud  and  higher 
Leaps  the  fierce  avenging  fire ! 

But  now  it  is  so  dense  and  dark, 

We  see  not  friend  or  foe  —  but  hark ! 
The  fight  is  o'er,  we  hear  no  gun  — 
O,  heaven  grant  that  we  have  won. 

The  darksome  curtain  slowly  lifts 
And  shows  the  red-coats  piled  in  drifts 
Adown  the  hillside  to  the  shore 
In  mangled  heaps  and  drenched  with  gore ; 
The  rest  in  wild  confusion  stand 
About  their  boats  upon  the  sand. 
But  see !  they  form  in  line  again 
And  swift  advance  upon  our  men. 

With  straining  eyes  and  bated  breath 
We  watch  the  pageantry  of  death, 
The  swift  advance,  the  earthy  mound, 
And  wait  to  hear  the  dreaded  sound. 

94 


"Two  hundred  feet  away  at  last — 
The  anxious  heart  beats  hard  and  fast. 
'The  British  fire,  but  no  report 
Makes  answer  from  the  silent  fort. 
One  hundred  feet  away,  and  still 
No  thunder  from  the  frowning  hill. 
A  flash  !   a  flame !   a  cloud  rolls  high, 
And  scores  of  red-coat  heroes  lie 
In  windrows  piled  upon  the  ground 
In  mingled  life  and  death  around. 
The  rest  are  huddled  on  the  beach 
Beyond  the  patriots'  muskets  reach. 
'Tis  o'er !   they  will  not  come  again 
To  ''beard  the  lion  in  his  den." 
But  look !   their  line  is  forming  o'er, 
With  bayonets  set  they  charge  once  more, 
Determined  that  the  foe  shall  feel 
The  thirsty  point  of  British  steel. 
Where  are  the  guns  that  spoke  before 
And  drenched  the  hillside  red  with  gore? 
Only  a  scattered  few  are  heard 
And  scarce  the  Briton's  line  is  stirred, 
And  like  a  mighty  wave  the  rank 
Sweeps  up  the  hill  and  o'er  the  bank. 

Their  powder  spent,  with  bar  and  spade 
And  musket  butt,  the  patriots  made 
A  stubborn  fight  to  keep  them  out, 
Yet  lacked  the  skill  and  fled  in  rout, 

95 


And  like  a  helpless,  storm-tossed  wreck 
Swept  down  the  hill  and  o'er  the  neck ; 

Across  the  isthmus  where  the  blight 

Of  cannon  shot  fell  left  and  right, 

And  from  each  crowded  roof  and  spire 
Went  up  a  groan  prolonged  and  dire. 

Ah !   do  not  call  this  fight  defeat, 

A  victory  oft  crowns  retreat. 
'Tis  not  the  battle  lost  or  won, 
It  is  the  deed  that  they  have  done. 

That  they  have  dared  to  do  this  thing 

Against  a  kingdom  and  a  king 
Is  in  itself  a  victory 
That  shall  resound  from  sea  to  sea ; 

A  host  shall  rise  when  they  shall  hear 

How  these  have  fought  and  perished  here, 
And  tyranny  shall  smitten  lie 
Because  these  men  have  dared  to  die ; 

And  not  one  atom  of  the  cost 

In  human  life  shall  e'er  be  lost. 
The  birds  will  tell  it  to  the  breeze, 
And  it  will  waft  it  o'er  the  seas ; 

In  every  land,  in  every  tongue, 

Where  freedom's  songs  are  joyous  sung, 
Fair  eyes  will  flash  and  brave  hearts  thrill 
To  hear  the  tale  of  Bunker  Hill. 


POEMS    OF    LOVE 


THE  GIPSY  LASS 

Know  you  the  song  of  the  gipsy  lass, 

The  wandering  brunette  ? 
I'm  sure  you  ne'er  could  have  seen  her  pass, 

Or  you  would  not  forget. 

About  her  waist  is  a  gorgeous  scarf 

Of  crimson  and  of  gold, 
As  light  and  free  as  the  gipsy's  laugh 

Is  every  careless  fold. 

The  wind  and  the  sun  have  tanned  her  cheek 

And  warmed  its  olive  skin, 
You  look  in  vain  for  a  feature  weak 

In  nose,  or  mouth,  or  chin. 

Her  lips  are  full  and  a  luscious  red, 

Her  eyes  have  a  dazzled  ray, 
And  if  their  light  on  your  path  is  shed 

'Twill  steal  your  heart  away. 

Know  you  the  song  of  the  gipsy  girl, 

A  song  of  love  or  war? 
Of  a  distant  knight  in  the  battle's  whirl, 

Or  a  sighing  troubadour. 

When  she  sings  of  war  then  her  temples  burn 

Like  the  brow  of  a  cavalier, 
Her  dark  eyes  flash,  and  her  face  grows  stern, 

Her  voice  rings  loud  and  clear. 


Her  eyes  are  soft  when  she  sings  of  love, 

Her  blushes  come  and  go, 
And  you  see  the  night  with  the  stars  above, 

And  feel  the  cool  winds  blow. 

O !  the  dark  brunette  has  a  smile  for  all, 

A  lover  new  each  day, 
She  picks  them  up,  then  she  lets  them  fall, 

And  flings  their  hearts  away. 

Know  you  the  life  of  the  gipsy  maid, 

Its  sorrow  and  its  grief? 
She  makes  her  bed  in  the  green  wood's  shade, 

Or  sleeps  on  the  fragrant  heath. 

The  evening  star  is  her  chamber  light, 

Her  lullaby  the  streams, 
And  the  restless  wind  at  the  dead  of  night 

Comes  moaning  in  her  dreams. 

But  the  lark  will  sing  in  the  morning  hours, 
When  night  and  sleep  are  through, 

To  wake  the  child  of  the  fields  and  flowers, 
The  sunlight  and  the  dew. 


SUNSHINE  AND  SHADOW 

Fair  are  the  skies  that  bend  to  meet  the  hills, 
Soft  are  the  winds  that  stir  the  meadow  grass, 
Cool  is  their  touch,  and  fragrant  as  they  pass 

100 


With  sweet  perfumes  that  come  as  nature  wills ; 
By  floral  walks  the  busy  bee  distills 
His  winter  store,  and  sweet  wild  songsters  mass, 
While  in  my  glad  young  heart  there  is,  alas, 
Not  room  to  hold  the  joy  that  bounds  and  thrills 
When   with   me  'neath  these   boughs   my   lady 

stands. 

No  other  time  wears  earth  so  fair  a  guise 
As  when  I  gaze  into  her  dreamy  eyes 
And  read  the  tale  I  treasure  more  than  lands, 
Or  hear  her  softly  breathe  her  love  once  more, — 
But  what  if  death  should  snatch  her  from   my 

door? 

THINE  EYES 

'Tis  vain  to  sing  the  glory  of  thine  eyes — 

Those    merry  eyes  that  dance  and  make  us 

glad, 
Those  mournful  eyes  that  glance  and  make  us 

sad, 

Those  liquid  depths  of  laughter  and  surprise 
Where  every  shade  of  sweet  expression  lies ; 
Those   tearful   eyes   where   pearly   dewdrops 

shine, 

Those  sunny  eyes  of  radiance  divine, 
Are  more  to  me  than  aught  in  paradise ; 
For  when  my  heart  is  heavy  with  despair 
I  turn  away  from  all  this  world  of  care 


And  gaze  into  their  depths — then  sorrow  flees 
And  joy  returns,  for  hidden  there  I  see 
The  wondrous  light  of  all  thy  love  for  me. 

Divinest  eyes!     Whence  are  your  mysteries? 


LOVE'S  INDEX 

You  may  live  for  sterner  duty, 

And  may  hold  yourself  apart, 
But  you  cannot  hide  the  beauty 

Of  the  joy  that's  in  your  heart ; 
For  the  face  reveals  the  glory 

Of  a  passion  strong  and  fair, 
And  love  has  no  hidden  story 

But  will  leave  its  imprint  there. 


103 


WHEN   THOU    ART    NEAR 


When  thou  art  near  it  matters  not  to  me 
What  fortune  moves  the  hand  of  destiny ; 
I  hold  it  more  than  wealth,  or  power,  or  fame, 
To  hold  thee  close  and  breathe  thy  dulcet  name. 


WE   TWO 

We  two,  love,  stood  beside  the  placid  stream, 
I  saw  your  face  like  to  a  happy  dream ; 
And  then  a  stone  slid  from  the  slippery  bank, 
And  silently  the  angel  vision  sank. 

THE    HEART    MUST   LEAD 

The  heart  must  lead  along  life's  doubtful  way 
When  'tis  too  dark  for  reason's  feeble  sight ; 

And  if  thou  heed'st  its  warnings,  day  by  day, 
In  deepest  gloom  'twill  lead  thy  steps  aright. 

A    CARESS 

Ambition,  where  are  all  thy  glories  now — 
The  wealth,  the  fame,  that  thou  did'st  crave 
of  yore  ? 

I'd  rather  feel  her  hand  upon  my  brow 
Than  any  crown  that  monarch  ever  wore. 


103 


WATCHING  AND  WAITING 

I  love  my  silent  watch  to  keep 

Beside  the  river  wide  and  deep, 
To  sit  beneath  the  shady  hill 
When  all  the  wood  is  hushed  and  still, 

And  watch  the  gentle  ebb  and  flow 

That  dances  in  the  vale  below. 

I  love  to  hear  the  waters  roar 
As  down  the  steep  they  madly  pour, 
Or  catch  their  softer  melody 
Upon  the  breezes  wild  and  free, 
When  wearily  the  river's  breast 
Smooths  out  its  folds  in  tranquil  rest. 

I  love  to  watch  the  silver  light 

Beneath  the  mantle  of  the  night, 
When,  rich  and  mellow  over  all, 
A  flood  of  dancing  moonbeams  fall, 

And  every  meteor  and  star 

Is  blazing  in  its  realm  afar. 

In  love's  sweet  season,  in  this  shade 

Long  years  ago  I  wooed  a  maid ; 
A  maiden  fair  as  any  flower 
That  ever  bloomed  in  Eden's  bower, 

And  two  young  hearts  beat  tenderly, 

Beside  the  river  on  the  lea. 


104 


A  cottage  stands  in  yonder  dell 

Where  one  fleet  year  we  two  did  dwell; 
And  life  was  happy  as  a  dream, 
And  peaceful  as  the  silver  stream, 

Until  one  day,  beside  the  deep 

My  little  darling  fell  asleep. 

I  called  her  long — I  called  her  wild ! 

But  cold  in  death  she  only  smiled; 
I  clasped  her  hand  and  bade  her  wake, 
I  told  her  that  my  heart  would  break, 

But  cold  in  death  her  hand  was  chill, 

Her  ashen  lips  were  mute  and  still. 

'Twas  long  ago,  that  mournful  day, 

When  tenderly  we  laid  away 

The  fairest  flower  in  all  the  vale, 
All  cold  and  lifeless  fair  and  pale. 

Folded  her  hands  upon  her  breast 

And  gently  laid  her  down  to  rest. 

And  now  at  fall  of  eventide 

I  wander  by  the  riverside 

And  sit  me  down  beneath  the  tree 
That  sheltered  little  Nell  and  me, 

And  by  the  river  wide  and  deep 

I  calmly  sit  and  wait  for  sleep. 

And  o'er  the  crag  the  waters  break 
And  still  my  darling  will  not  wake, 
105 


And  through  the  mead  the  river  creeps 
And  still  sweet  Nellie  gently  sleeps. 
And  o'er  her  grave  the  willow  weeps, 
And  still  ray  darling  sleeps  and  sleeps. 

TO  MY  LADY  SLEEPING 

How  fair,  how  tranquil  is  my  lady's  pose  — 
Upon  her  pillow,  wrapped  in  peaceful  dreams, 
Hardly  a  thing  of  earth  or  life  she  seems, 
Her  lips  half  parted  like  a  budding  rose ; 
And  o'er  her  couch  one  golden  ringlet  flows, 
The  rest  across  her  pillow  wildly  streams, 
And  in  the  silver  moonlight  glints  and  gleams 
Like  evening  sunlight  on  eternal  snows ; 
And  with  each  breath  that  softly  comes  and  goes 
I  see  the  hand  upon  her  virgin  breast 
Rise  quickly  up  then  slowly  sink  to  rest  — 
And  now  she  smiles  in  innocent  repose  — 
O !  tell  me  stars,  or  wind  that  softly  blows, 
Is  it  for  me  that  smile  like  heaven  glows? 

THERE  IS  BEAUTY 

There  is  beauty  without  stature, 

In  the  perfect  Grecian  mold, 
There  is  beauty  without  feature 

In  the  classic  dies  of  old ; 

1 06 


There  is  beauty  without  fashion, 

There  is  beauty  without  art 
In  the  pure  and  simple  passion 

Of  a  tender  loving  heart. 

Be  the  passion  love  or  pity, 

Crowned  with  honor  or  with  shame, 
For  a  dreamland  or  a  city 

Still  the  lesson  is  the  same; 
For  the  spirit  is  immortal 

And  it  shineth  through  the  clay, 
Like  the  sunlight  through  the  portal 

Of  a  dark  and  sombre  day. 

A  BOUTONNIERE 

It  is  not  that  the  flower  is  rare, 

Because  'tis  bright  to  see, 

But  that  thy  fingers  placed  it  there, 

Upon  my  coat  for  me ; 

For  at  thy  touch  the  ugly  tare 

Would  turn  anemone. 

ONLY  A  SLENDER  GRAVEN  BAND 

Only  a  slender  graven  band, 

A  tiny  thing  of  gold, 
I  took  it  from  my  dead  Love's  hand 

Her  hand  so  white  and  cold. 

107 


I  hid  it  in  my  aching  breast, 

O !   cruel  cruel  fate, 
It  filled  my  heart  with  mad  unrest 

And  crushed  me  with  its  weight. 

I  hid  it  in  a  secret  drawer, 

Away  from  mortal  eye, 
But  still  it  drew  me  by  its  power  — 

I  could  not  let  it  lie. 

I  gave  it  to  a  distant  friend 

To  keep  for  me,  alack  ! 
Before  he  reached  his  journey's  end 

I  was  upon  his  track. 

I  tore  it  fiercely  from  his  hand 

And  threw  it  in  the  sea, 
Then  lay  me  down  upon  the  sand 

And  wept  it  bitterly. 

It  fell  upon  a  sea- weed  bright 
That  floated  to  the  shore, 

I  seized  my  treasure  with  delight 
And  kissed  it  o'er  and  o'er. 

And  now  I  wear  it  on  my  hand 
Where  all  the  world  may  see, — 

But  only  God  can  understand 
How  much  it  means  to  me. 


1 08 


TO  A  WATCH 

Thing  of  beauty,  made  for  duty, 
Ever  ticking  without  rest, 

Thou  art  sleeping  in  good  keeping 
On  a  peerless  maiden's  breast, 

Thou  art  nearest  to  her  dearest 
Hopes  and  longings  all  unguessed. 

O  discover  if  another 

Of  her  graces  is  possessed, 

For  her  favor  would  forever 
Make  me  dearly  doubly  blessed, 

And  no  burden  e'er  would  sadden 
If  her  love  I  once  possessed. 


109 


INDIRECTION 


Thou  may'st  not  ever  lift  thy  voice  in  song, 
But  since  my  life  has  seen  and  felt  and  known 
The  height  and  depth  and  purpose  of  thine  own, 
One  poet's  verse  shall  be  more  deep,  more  strong. 


THE   TALKING   DAISY 


Only  a  daisy  growing  by  the  walk  — 

Who  ever  heard  a  little  daisy  talk? 

I  picked  the  flower  and  sent  it  o'er  the  sea, 

And  soon  it  brought  my  lost  love  back  to  me. 


THY   SMILE 


Oh  let  me  linger  love  awhile, 
A  little  in  the  sunshine  stay, 

The  gentle  sunlight  of  thy  smile 
That  turns  my  darkest  night  to  day. 


LOVE   IS  A   BIRD 


Love  is  a  bird  that  fears  the  haunts  of  men, 
But  seeks  instead  some  sweet  secluded  glen ; 
Afar  from  wealth  with  peace  upon  its  wings, 
Beside  the  cotter's  door  he  sweetly  sings. 


I  LOVED  THEE  SO 

My  life  was  like  a  barren,  wind-swept  plain, 
Surmounted  by  a  brazen,  cloudless  sky, 
Without  an  oasis  to  cheer  the  eye, 

Or  e'en  a  shrub  to  tell  of  cooling  rain ; 

Then  to  my  heart  all  feverish  with  pain, 

Came  love  with  dewy  wings,  and  told  of  thy 
Sweet  face,  thy  blush,  thy  melancholy  sigh. 

And  of  thy  soul  so  pure  and  free  from  stain. 
Then  straightway  all  the  barren  waste  of  years 
Was  flooded  by  a  shower  of  happy  tears 

And  in  that  hour  my  soul  forgot  its  woe ; 

New  pleasures   filled    with   joy  the   glad  old 

earth, 

New  hopes  and  longing  taught  my  soul  the 
worth 

Of  life,  and  all  because  I  loved  thee  so. 


ONE  MEMORY 

Though  sun  and  moon  and  stars  should  pale, 

And  all  my  earthly  friends  should  fail, 
If  I  could  keep  Thee  in  my  heart 
Unsullied,  from  the  world  apart ; 

This  one  great  joy  amid  life's  woe 

Would  make  my  cup  to  overflow. 


PYGMALION  TO  GALATEA 

O  soulless  Galatea !     Thou  art  stone, 
And  yet  my  hands  have  given  to  thy  form 
A  grace  that  never  yet  was  seen  of  flesh, 
And  to  thy  brow  a  beauty  never  born. 
But  no  —  my  throbbing  heart  and  fevered  brain 
Ne'er  held  so  fair  a  dream  of  womanhood ; 
My  trembling  hands  but  freed  thee  from  the  cold, 
Relentless  stone  that  held  thy  matchless  form, 
And  thou  didst  live  in  some  forgotten  age 
When  men  were  gods  and  women  were  their 
queens. 

O  peerless  Galatea !     Thou  art  free, 

And  I  have  wrought  that  rich  deliverance. 

What  wild,  ecstatic  joy  it  was  to  see 

Thy  goddess  features  grow  from  out  the  stone, 

As  year  by  year  I  labored  slowly  on. 

And,  as  I  worked,  it  seemed  thy  noble  face 

Grew  warm  beneath   my  touch ;   I  thought  thy 

lips 

Would  surely  speak  when  I  had  set  them  free ; 
But  when  I  pressed  them  with  my  own,  the  twain 
Were  hard  and  cold  and  passionless  as  death. 

O  heartless  Galatea !     Speak  to  me, 
Though  thou  canst  say  but  cold  and  cruel  words ; 
For  I  would  see  thee  move  thy  speechless  lips 
E'en  though  their  breath  did  freeze  my  very  soul. 


112 


I  cannot  bear  to  look  upon  thy  face 
Its  cold  indifference  would  break  my  heart. 
And  drive  me  mad.     I  cannot  bear  to  hold 
Thy  senseless  hand,  its  lifeless  touch  is  like 
The  hand  of  death.      Oh!  give  one  simple  sign 
Of  life  and  love  and  I  will  rest  content ! 

O  dearest  Galatea !     Live  for  me 
And  I  will  crown  thy  life  with  priceless  love. 
My  watchful  tenderness  shall  soothe  thy  pain 
And  shield  thee  from  all  sorrow  and  distress, 
My  boundless  love  shall  be  thy  refuge  and 
Thy  strength  and  I  will  live  to  give  thee  joy. 
If  love  be  dead  and  cold  within  thy  breast, 
Mine  own  warm  heart  shall  kindle  it  anew 
Into  a  flame  that  shall  transcend  the  skies, 
And  live  though  all  things  else  in  life  shall  fail. 

O  senseless  Galatea !     Thou  art  dead ! 
And  yet,  I  swear  thy  soul  shall  come  again. 
Such  love  as  mine  would  start  the  blood  within 
Thy  pulseless  breast,  and  call  thy  spirit  back, 
Though  death   had   claimed  it  for  a  thousand 

years. 

My  heart  shall  beat  in  mute  appeal  for  thee, 
Each  breath  my  lips  shall  cry  aloud  for  thee, 
And  all  my  life  shall  be  a  living  prayer 
Unto  the  gods  for  thy  deliverance ; 
And  I  will  watch,  and  wait,  and  pray,  till  heaven 


Shall  give  thee  back  to  earth,  or  death  shall  loose 
My  cruel  chains  and  let  me  go  to  thee. 

A  NEW-BLOWN  ROSE 

Dew-gemmed,  sun-kissed  and  reaching  towards 

the  light, 

Op'ning  its  folds,  soft  tinted,  red  and  rare, 
Breathing  its  fragrance  on  the  morning  air, 

'Tis  just  the  rose  to  give  my  love  delight, 

I'll  pick  it  now,  and  give  it  her  to-night. 
But  'tis  so  sweet,  so  fragrant  and  so  fair, 
Smiling,  blushing  upon  the  rose  bush  there, 

I  cannot  pluck  it  from  the  stem  to  blight 
E'en  though  it  be  for  my  dear  love  to  wear. 

THE  POET'S  LOVE 

The  poet's  love  should  be  a  maid  so  fair 

That  all  would  pause  in  pleasure  and  surprise, 

Whene'er  she  passed,  to  feast  their  hungry  eyes 

Upon  a  sight  so  beautiful  and  rare. 

The  poet's  love  should  have  a  mind  and  dare 

To  criticise  her  minstrel's  faulty  song, 

To  tell  him  where  the  feeble  lines  went  wrong, 

And  then  to  praise  the  little  beauty  there. 

The  poet's  love  should  be  a  maid  of  prayer 

And  draw  her  knowledge  of  the  lyric  art 

114 


Out  of  the  longings  of  her  woman's  heart, 
With  eyes  to  see  and  heart  to  truly  care 
For  peerless  truth,  then  while  the  poet  sings 
She  lifts  him  up  to  higher  nobler  things. 


SWEET  SMILING  LIPS 

Sweet  smiling  lips,  so  wan  and  white, 
That  yester  morn  were  laughing  light 
Oh !  tell  me  has  her  spirit  fled, 
Or  does  my  loved  one  sleep  instead  ? 
Oh !   will  she  wake  with  morning  bright, 
Sweet  smiling  lips? 

But  one  brief  day  has  taken  flight, 
Since  love  redeemed  its  holy  plight 
But  now  all  happiness  has  sped, 
Sweet  smiling  lips. 

Yet  yesterday  when  we  were  wed 
I  thought  the  simple  words  you  said 
Were  something  Time  could  never  blight 
But  now  that  dream  has  vanished  quite. 
Oh !  come  back  flushing,  blushing  red 
And  tell  me  that  she  is  not  dead, 
Sweet  smiling  lips. 


LOVE  OR  GOLD 

Gold  is  a  stingy  offering 

In  sorrow's  raging  storm, 
It  cannot  consolation  bring  — 

But  love  is  deep  and  warm. 

Love's  bright  and  holy  tributes  spring 
From  hearts  with  love  aglow, 

While  all  gold's  favors  hollow  ring 
As  empty  idle  show. 


THE  ROSE  AND  THE  THORN 

I  sought  the  flower  I  loved  the  best 
Amid  the  garden's  varied  bloom, 
A  perfect  bud  with  sweet  perfume, 

A  rose  more  fair  than  all  the  rest 

That  I  might  wear  it  on  my  breast 
And  guard  it  ever  tenderly. 
I  found  the  flower  that  bloomed  for  me 

Beside  the  pathway,  smiling  lest 
The  wanderer  might  pass  it  by 
And  it  be  left  to  fade  and  die. 

I  seized  the  flower  with  wild  delight, 
Though  cruelly  my  hand  was  torn. 

It  faded  e'er  another  night 

And  left  me  but  the  ugly  thorn. 

116 


AT  DEVOTION 

Now  kneels  my  lady  at  her  couch  in  prayer, 

Her  two  white  hands  uplifted  to  the  skies, 

To  ask  of  Him  beneficent  and  wise 

Another  night  of  tender  love  and  care. 

And  as  I  watch  my  lady  kneeling  there 

With  deep  devotion  in  her  tender  eyes, 

While  from  her  lips  fair  phrased  petitions  rise, 

Her  robe  like  to  the  garb  that  angels  wear, 

But  made  the  whiter  by  her  streaming  hair ; 

I  deem  that  from  the  gates  of  Paradise 

An  angel  heard  my  heart's  impatient  cries 

For  woman's  love,  and  answered  then  and  there. 

Fair  angel  say  one  word  of  grace  for  me 

For  God  must  surely  hear  and  answer  thee. 

BOATING  ON  THE  LAKE 

The  stars  are  bright,  the  moon  is  high, 
And  night  winds  whisper  on  the  shore. 
Our  boat  is  slowly  gliding  o'er 

A  lake  as  placid  as  the  sky, 

Where  moon  and  stars  reflected  lie. 
The  liquid  laughter  of  Lenore, 
The  gentle  dipping  of  her  oar 

Awake  a  happy  lullaby. 
"  Ah!  lady  fair,"  I  musing  said, 

"  If  life  is  but  a  boat  like  this, 

117 


With  you  to  row  and  me  to  kiss, 
What  joy  'twould  be  when  we  are  wed !  " 
'"Ah,  no,"  she  said — "  'Tis  very  clear 

That  you  will  row  and  I  shall  steer." 

PLAYING  TENNIS 

The  winds  are  playing  with  her  hair, 

Her  cheeks  are  flushing  like  the  rose, 
vShe  stands  with  racket  raised  in  air, 

To  catch  the  ball  that  comes  and  goes. 
She  springs  more  fleetly  than  the  roe 

And  serves  with  swift  unerring  flight, 
Lite  willows  when  the  breezes  blow 

She  bends,  and  sways,  and  turns,  and  light 
Upon  the  lawn  her  footfalls  pass, 
As  thistledown  upon  the  grass. 

Three  brilliants  brought  from  Afric's  strand 
Reflect  the  morning's  rosy  light, 
And  yet  her  eyes  are  twice  as  bright 

As  all  the  jewels  on  her  hand. 

YES  OR  NO 

They  sat  within  a  dreamy  bower, 

And  passed  the  hours  in  converse  sweet ; 
He  by  her  side,  yet  at  her  feet, 
Nor  heard  the  clock  upon  the  tower 
That  chimed  each  swiftly  passing  hour ; 

118 


And  in  each  moment  passing  fleet 

He  racked  his  wits  for  some  conceit 
To  supplement  his  feeble  power 

In  asking  for  the  maiden's  hand ; 
While  she  impatient  of  delay, 
But  looked  the  words  she  dared  not  say, 

And  wished  that  he  might  understand. 
Only  a  word  and  idle  breath, 
But  yes  was  life,  and  no  was  death. 

IF  I  BUT  HAD  THE  KEY 

If  I  but  had  the  little  key 

That  opes  my  lady's  wayward  heart 
I'd  turn  the  bolt,  and  then  I'd  see 

If  love  e'er  pierced  it  with  his  dart ; 
And  if  her  love  was  all  for  me 

I'd  enter  in  and  lock  the  door, 

And  live  with  love  forevermore. 

THE  BALL  DRESS 

They  dressed  my  lady  for  the  ball  — 
In  softest  satins,  fashioned  so 
They  left  her  arms  and  neck  to  show 

That  they  were  fair  as  snows  that  fall, 

With  richest  laces  over  all. 

About  her  form's  exquisite  mould 
Fell  many  a  graceful  shining  fold, 

119 


And  admiration  filled  the  hall. 
But  where's  the  beauty  of  a  dress 
To  match  this  lady's  loveliness? 

Her  sweet  address,  her  happy  mien, 
That  glossy  hair,  those  eyes  of  brown, 
That  sunny  face  that  ne'er  could  frown, 

Would  grace  the  raiment  of  a  queen. 


THE  FISHER-MAIDEN 

Her  smile  is  like  the  morning  bright 
When  shines  the  glorious  sun, 

Her  eyes  are  like  the  flashing  light 
From  out  the  diamond  stone. 

Her  lips  are  like  the  cherry  red  — 
They  hide  such  teeth  of  pearl, 

And  when  by  laughter  they  are  spread 
There's  such  a  tempting  curl. 

Faint  blushes  play  upon  her  cheeks, 

Like  ripples  on  the  Nile, 
I'd  like  to  catch  one  as  it  streaks 

From  dimple  into  smile. 

I  love  her  well  and  told  her  so 
When  we  were  out  to-day, — 

She  answered  me  so  soft  and  low 
And  did  not  say  me  nay. 

120 


PRELUDE 

O  words !  weak  words,  how  can  I  give  thee  form 
And  color  like  the  fair  young  face  I  fain 
Would  paint?      How  can  I  give  thee  light  and 

shade, 

And  strength  and  truth  and  gentle  earnestness, 
And  crown  them  all  with  that  rich  coronet 
Of  human  life,  a  great  and  noble  soul? 

O  eyes !  deep  lucent  pools  of  tenderness 

And  truth,  where  all  that  fair  or  good  in  earth 

Or  heaven  mirrored  lies,  where  burns  the  fire 

Of  proud  ambition  towards  the  infinite, 

And  soul  that  will  not  rest  content  with  small 

Uncertain  things,  but  needs  must  climb  from 

height 

To  height,  undazzled  by  the  altitude, 
That  cannot  rest  until  it  knoweth  God, 
The  source,  and  author  of  the  universe, 
The  fountain  of  all  beauty  and  all  truth, 
And  knowing  Him — must  love  the  mystery 
Of  earth,  of  air,  of  sun,  of  sky,  and  all 
That  moves  and  lives  in  this  great  universe. 
O  eyes,  so  strong,  so  deep,  so  grave,  so  full 
Of  that  unspoken  language  of  the  soul ; 
Mine  own  poor  orbs  go  down  before  thy  gaze 
As  'twere  an  angel  sent  to  me  from  heaven 


To  read  my  heart  and  pierce  my  inmost  soul ; 
So  rare,  so  pure,  so  heavenly  is  your  light. 

O  lips!   fair  servants  of  the  heart  and  brain, 
Expressing  all  her  thoughts  and  feelings  in 
Such  myriad  forms  of  speech,  and  diverse  looks, 
And  little  intonations  quaint  and  sweet 
That  saying  nothing,  mean  a  volume  full, 
And  fill  the  poet's  heart  with  joy  and  fear ; 
That  in  their  speech  let  fall  such  pearls  of  truth, 
Such  spotless  gems  of  fancy  and  of  wit, 
It  seemed  she  held  the  chalice  of  all  wit. 
All  wisdom,  and  all  fancy  in  her  hands, 
And  did  but  lavish  forth  what  pleased  her  mood, 
And  in  such  tones  it  seemed  a  siren  spake ; 
And  who  shall  paint  the  rapture  of  those  lips 
When  through  their  ruby  depths  there  breaks  a 

smile 

Like  sunlight  through  the  rosy  gates  of  morn, 
Or  like  a  primrose  parted  by  a  sunbeam. 
O  lips  of  beauty,  strength  and  eloquence, 
Of  tenderness  and  power  all  blent  in  one, 
O  bless  me  with  one  word  of  gracious  praise, 
Of  commendation  for  this  poor  attempt, 
And  more  —  O  ecstacy  too  great  for  words, 
One  word  of  love,  of  sweet  abiding  love, 
Beside  which  all  life's  other  gold  is  dross. 

O  face!  the  looking  glass  of  woman's  soul, 
The  full  blown  rose  of  all  her  sweet  perfection, 

122 


The  never  failing-  index  of  the  heart, 

What  strength,  what  beauty  in  thy  every  line, 

What  high-born  thought,  what  thrilling  passion 

speaks 

In  eye,  in  mouth,  and  in  thy  noble  brow ; 
What  envy  for  the  rose  is  in  thy  blush, 
What  venom  for  the  lily  in  thy  skin. 
O  face,  what  greater  rapture  could  man  know 
Than  biding  near  her  while  my  lady  dreams, 
And  watch  the  play,   the  change  of  light  and 

shade, 

Upon  her  face,  when  life's  full  chord  is  struck 
And  flesh  reveals  the  spirit  that's  within. 

O  form  !  that  matches  symmetry  with  grace, 

And  eloquence  and  brawn,  with  beauty  too, 

Where  is  the  Venus,  born  of  ancient  art, 

Or  Diana,  so  strong  and  swift  of  foot, 

In  noble  bust  that  can  compare  with  thee? 

How  flows  the  rich  profusion  of  thy  hair 

In  glossy  tresses  down  a  lily  neck, 

How  swells  the  contour  of  thy  virgin  breast 

With  all  that  is  most  noble  in  the  heart, 

What  graceful  curves  thy  sloping  shoulders  make, 

And  how  above  the  rest,  serene  and  full 

Thy  noble  forehead  speaks  intelligence. 

0  queen  of  beauty !     regent  of  my  heart ! 

1  bring  this  poor  portrayal  of  thy  grace, 


123 


A  better  theme  for  Petrarch,  or  the  bard 
Who  tuned  his  lyre  for  goddesses  of  old, 
And  beg  thee  hang  it  in  thy  banquet  hall, 
Not  that  it  is  sufficient  in  itself, 
But  that  it  is  a  labor  of  such  love. 
There  let  it  hang,  upon  the  frescoed  wall 
Just  where  some  merry  sunbeam  deigns  to  slant, 
Itself  a  sunbeam  from  the  source  of  light, 
That  some  may  know,  who  pause  and  chance  to 

look 

Above  the  mould,  and  cobwebs  at  their  feet, 
That   some   poor   fool   has   dreamed,   and   e'en 

aspired 

Out  of  his  boundless  love  that  gave  him  strength, 
To  paint  for  man,  that  fairest  work  of  God, 
Set  like  a  jewel  in  a  grosser  world 
That  better  shows  it  forth,  a  perfect  woman. 


124 


POEMS  OF  CHILDHOOD 


ALL  ABOUT  FROGS 

A  frog  is  something  like  a  toad, 
Only  he  lives  down  by  the  road 
Where  there's  a  pond  and  lily  pads, 
And  toads,  they  live  in  folk's  back  yards. 

A  toad  is  fat,  a  frog  is  lean, 
The  suit  he  wears  is  always  green, 
Except  his  vest,  and  that  is  yellow, 
And  he's  a  mighty  funny  fellow. 

Sometimes  he  sits  beside  a  pad 
And  smiles  at  you,  like  he  was  glad, 
And  then  he  goes  down  in  kerplunk, 
And  kicks  around  like  he  was  drunk ; 

And  when  you  think  he's  surely  drowned, 
He's  gone  so  long,  you  look  around 
And  you  will  see  him  on  a  stone, 
A  catchin'  flies  and  havin'  fun. 

Sometimes  I  poke  him  with  a  stick 
To  see  him  jump,  he  goes  so  quick, 
So  very  quick,  I  do  declare 
You  cannot  see  him  in  the  air. 

But  some  bad  boys  throw  stones  at  him. 
And  he  gets  killed,  if  he  don't  swim 
Down  out  of  sight,  and  quiet  stay 
Until  the  bad  boys  go  away. 

127 


My  pa,  he  knows,  and  he  says  frogs 
Are  but  big  grown  up  polly wogs ; 
I  didn't  see  how  that  could  be, 
And  so  I  thought  one  day  I'd  see. 

I  went  and  caught  a  pollywog 
And  laid  him  down  upon  a  log, 
And  watched  him  for  an  hour  or  so, 
But  I  am  sure  he  didn't  grow. 

When  I  told  Papa,  he  looked  queer 
And  said  it  took  almost  a  year 
For  them  to  grow,  and  that  was  why 
I  could  not  see  it  with  my  eye. 


SHADOWS 

A  little  tree  my  hand  could  reach  around, 
Can  cast  a  mighty  shadow  on  the  ground ; 
So  little  folks  if  they  are  cross  at  play, 
May  make  dark  shadows  chase  the  sun  away. 


HOW  TOMMY  WALKED  ON  THE  WATER 

Last  Friday  afternoon  when  school  was  done 
And  Tommy  'n'  me  were  looking  out  for  fun, 
A  new  idea  came  into  Tommy's  head 
While  we  were  sitting  by  Ma's  posy  bed. 

128 


I'm  goin'  to  do  a  miracle  for  you," 
He  said,  "  If  you  won't  tell,  honest  and  true," 
And  then  he  went  into  the  wagon  shed 
And  got  two  bladders  bigger  than  my  head. 

And  then  we  went  down  to  the  old  red  mill, 
Where  there's  a  pond,  with  water  in  it  still, 
And  Tommy  got  upon  a  log  of  wood 
And  crawled  out  on  it  careful  as  he  could. 

And  then  he  fished  his  pockets  for  some  strings, 
And  on  his  big  toes  tied  them  bladder  things, 
Then  said  he'd  show  me  how  that  Peter  done, 
And  do  a  miracle  and  have  some  fun. 

He  stepped  right  off  just  like  the  pond  was 

ground, 

With  both  his  feet  a-bobbin'  all  around, 
Without  a  thought  of  his  new  pair  of  clothes 
And  went  head  first  right  down  upon  his  nose. 

His  head  went  down  like  it  was  made  of  lead 
And  both  his  feet  came  up  in  sight  instead ; 
'Twas  like  a  fly  a-walkin'  on  the  ceilin', 
I  saw  him  kick  but  couldn't  hear  him  squealin'. 

And  all  the  time  he  tried  to  reach  his  toes 
And  break  them  strings,  a-standin'  on  his  nose ; 
But  I  got  scat  when  he  had  kicked  a  spell, 
And  hollered  fire  as  tight  as  I  could  yell. 

129 


Then  Pa  came  runnin'  out  without  his  hat 
And  in  his  stocking  feet,  a-lookin'  scat; 
We  got  poor  Tommy  out  and  home  in  bed, 
A-lookin'  pale  and  white,  and  almost  dead. 

And  Ma  she  cried  and  kissed  him  lots  and  said, 
"  It  was  a  mercy  that  he  wasn't  dead ;" 
And  Pa  he  said  that  he  would  tend  to  me 
And  give  me  something  pleasant  after  tea. 

THE   BUTTERCUP 

Dear  little  chalice,  catching  the  sunlight, 
Holding  the  drops  of  the  morning  dew, 
Growing  so  sweetly  here  by  the  roadside, 
Would  I  might  learn  a  lesson  from  you. 
Out  of  the  sunlight  and  glory  of  God, 
To  gather  the  sweetness  and  leave  the  rue. 

ALL  ABOUT  GIRLS 

A  girl  is  something  with  a  braid, 
That  wears  an  apron  and  is  'f  raid ; 
And  women,  they  are  grown  up  girls, 
With  longer  hair  and  lots  more  curls. 

I  have  a  sister  'n'  her  name's  Nan, 
And  she  can't  ever  be  a  man, 
Or  run  about  upon  the  hay 
And  have  a  jolly  time  at  play. 
130 


All  she  can  do  is  have  a  doll 

And  take  it  out  with  her  to  call, 

Or  pick  some  flowers  and  make  bouquets, 

Which  are  the  dullest  kind  of  plays. 

Girls  have  to  stay  inside  the  house 
And  keep  as  quiet  as  a  mouse, 
But  boys  can  go  outside  and  yell, 
And  when  they're  tired,  come  in  a  spell. 

Girls  have  to  wash  the  dishes  too, 
And  sweep  the  room  when  that  is  through, 
While  boys  go  off  to  slide  and  skate 
And  don't  get  home  till  it  is  late. 

But  girls  are  good  for  little  things, 
Like  mending  balls,  or  tying  strings, 
And  sometimes  Nan  will  help  a  feller 
When  he  has  lost  his  ball  down  cellar. 

There's  one  thing  girls  don't  have  to  do, 
That's  get  in  wood,  like  me  or  you, 
And  if  they  did  I  know  they'd  cry 
And  then  not  pile  the  wood  up  high. 

But  Nan,  she's  better  than  the  others, 
For  she  is  good  to  both  her  brothers, 
And  I  am  sure  she'd  like  to  be 
A  boy  like  Tommy  or  like  me. 

131 


ALL  ABOUT  BOYS 

A  boy  is  something  that  makes  noise 
And  smashes  things  and  loses  toys, — 
That  is  until  they're  grown  up,  then 
Folks  do  not  call  them  boys,  but  men. 

The  things  boys  like  the  best  are  bad 
Or  things  that  make  their  mothers'  sad, 
Like  going  on  the  pond  to  skate 
When  'tis  not  safe,  and  stayin'  late. 

Most  boys  don't  care  so  much  for  dolls  — 
The  things  they  like  are  bats  and  balls 
And  circuses  and  kinds  of  play 
Where  there's  a  horse  that  runs  away. 

Small  boys  are  always  full  of  tricks, 
Like  tickling  you  with  straws  and  sticks, 
Or  putting  on  some  furs  to  wear 
And  fright'ning  you  a  playing  bear. 

My  youngest  brother's  name  is  Jack  — 
Sometimes  he  takes  me  on  his  back 
Just  like  a  horse  and  gallops  round 
And  then  he  spills  me  on  the  ground. 

My  brother  Tommy  says  that  girls 
Ain't  good  for  much  but  raisin'  curls, 
And  that  folks  keep  them  just  for  hair 
To  stuff  the  parlor  rocking  chair. 

132 


And  then  he  says  it's  only  play 
And  they  don't  mean  all  that  they  say, 
And  when  he's  grown  up  to  a  man 
He'll  buy  fine  things  for  little  Nan. 


There  is  a  play,  I  guess  you  wish  you  knew  it, 
And  I  will  tell  you  just  the  way  to  do  it, 
If  you  won't  tell  —  that  is,  not  every  one 
For  'tis  a  secret  and  such  jolly  fun. 

You  get  your  Pa  to  go  down  to  the  store 
And  get  a  box  big  as  the  parlor  door, 
And  then  you  have  him  put  it  on  the  ground 
Where  there  is  grass  and  shade  trees  all  around. 

And  then  you  tease  your  Papa  more  and  more 
Until  he  gets  a  saw  and  makes  a  door 
Low  down  upon  one  side  where  doors  should  be, 
And  then  'tis  ready  for  the  family. 

The  family  is  Tommy,  Jack  and  I, 
When  they  will  play,  and  also  Butterfly 
When  she's  around,  (she  really  is  a  cat) 
But  in  our  play  a  dog  upon  the  mat. 

I'm  mistress  of  the  house  and  bake  the  bread 
And  do  such  things,  and  Tommy's  uncle  Ned 

133 


He  says  that's  so  that  he  can  sit  up  late 
And  not  be  sent  to  bed  when  it  is  eight. 

Jack  plays  that  he  is  Pa,  and  goes  away 

To  Boston,  so  that  he  can  stay  all  day; 

At  night  when  he  comes  home  to  Tommy  'n'  me 

He  tells  about  the  things  he's  been  to  see. 

To  make  it  night  you  spread  your  mother's  shawl 
Over  the  door  till  you  can't  see  at  all ; 
Then  go  to  bed,  but  Tommy  says  he  dreams 
Which  is  not  nice  for  then  he  kicks  and  screams. 

When  you  get  tired  of  this,  you  wake  and  say, 
"  I  guess  it  must  be  getting  almost  day," 
And  then  you  look  out  doors  and  it  is  light 
And  so  you  give  up  playing  it  is  night. 

And  when  you've  played  at  having  dolly  sick 
And  sending  for  the  Doctor  very  quick, 
And  had  a  washing  day  and  ironing  too, 
And  many  other  things  that  you  may  do 

A  bell  will  ring  and  then  it  is  you'll  know 
How  quick  this  play  will  make  the  minutes  go, 
And  you  will  run  into  the  house  and  see 
What  good  things  your  Mamma  has  got  for  tea. 


134 


HOW  SANTA  GLAUS  CAME  DOWN  THE 
CHIMNEY 

Last  Christmas  eve,  when  we  were  snug  in  bed,. 
And  all  the  lights  were  out,  Tommy,  he  said,. 
"  I'd  like  to  know  how  'tis,  with  pack  and  all, 
That  Santa  Claus  gets  down  the  chimney  hole." 

"  Let's  lay  awake  and  see  and  then  we'll  know;: 
Won't  it  be  fun  to  see  him  squeezed  up  so?'*' 
And  so  we  laid  awake,  but  by  and  by, 
I  got  to  sleeping  some  with  my  left  eye. 

But  still  I  saw  the  chimney  with  my  right, 
And  by  and  by  there  came  the  queerest  sight,. 
A  little  man  no  bigger  than  Tom  Thumb, 
With  a  little  pack  no  bigger  than  my  drum 

Came  sliding   down  the   chimney   more   and 

more, 

Until  he  went  kerbump  upon  the  floor ; 
And  then  he  looked  around  the  room  a  spell,. 
But  very  soon  his  pack  began  to  swell. 

It  kept  a  swelling,  more  and  more  and  more, 
Till  it  was  bigger  than  the  parlor  door ; 
And  then  I  saw  that  it  was  full  of  toys 
And  books  and  dolls,  and  things  for  girls  and 
boys. 

135 


And  soon  the  little  man  had  grown  so  tall 
He  didn't  seem  to  be  a  dwarf  at  all ; 
And  then  he  took  some  things  out  of  his  pack 
And  filled  my  stocking  till   I  thought  'twould 
crack. 

And  then  the  pack  grew  small,  and  small  and 

small, 

Until  it  wasn't  bigger  'n'  nothin*  'tall, 
And  Santa  Glaus  he  was  a  dwarf  once  more, 
And  climbed  up  back  as  he  had  come  before. 

Then  just  as  Santa  Claus  got  out  of  sight 

I  opened  my  left  eye  and  it  was  light, 

And  there  were  all  the  things  for  Tommy  'n'  me, 

A-bursting  out  just  as  I  knew  they'd  be. 

But  when  I  told  him,  Tommy  laughed,  and  said, 

I  was  a  foolish  little  sleepy  head, 

But  by  and  by,  he  said,  "  It  must  be  so, 

For  Santa  Claus  had  left  the  things,  you  know." 


A  WISH 

I  wish  that  Pa  was  Santa  Claus 
With  reindeer  and  a  pack,  because, 
Then  he  would  have  such  lots  of  toys 
For  all  his  little  girls  and  boys. 

136 


Then  every  day  would  Christmas  be 
With  lots  of  fun  for  Tommy  'n'  me, 
We'd  hang  our  stockings  every  night 
And  Pa  would  fill  them  'fore  'twas  light. 

Then  when  I'd  grow'd  to  be  a  man, 
Just  as  my  mother  says  I  can, 
I  would  be  Santa  Glaus  like  him 
And  fill  boys'  stockings  to  the  brim. 


THE  SUNBEAM  AND  THE  SHADOW 

A  sunbeam  from  the  source  of  light 
Came  flashing  down  to  earth, 
His  face  was  fair,  his  eyes  were  bright, 
His  heart  was  full  of  mirth. 

Right  joyfully  the  sunbeam  came 
To  swell  the  perfect  day, 
Yet  where  he  fell,  it  was  a  shame. 
Dark  shadows  round  him  lay. 

"  Why  come  you  here?  "  a  shadow  cried, 

And  on  him  darkly  frowned, 
' '  This  is  our  only  place  to  hide 

For  many  miles  around." 

"  I  come  to  cheer  each  lonely  place 
And  turn  the  dark  to  day, 

137 


To  light  a  smile  on  sorrow's  face 
And  drive  its  gloom  away." 

"  Poor  foolish  thing,"  the  shadow  said, 
"  Earth  is  no  place  for  day, 

Her  life  is  dark  and  cold  and  dread, 

You  know  not  what  you  say. 

' '  I  cover  up  its  want  and  woe 
And  wrap  the  earth  in  sleep, 
That  none  may  see  and  none  may  know 
What  countless  millions  weep." 

The  merry  little  sunbeam  laughed, 
"  That  is  not  right,"  he  said, 
"  I've  seen  the  smart  of  sorrow's  shaft, 

I  dry  their  tears  instead. 

Earth  hath  her  sorrows  and  her  joys, 
Her  sunshine  and  her  rain, 
But  love  is  worth  all  life's  alloys, 
Its  pleasure  worth  its  pain." 

And  then  the  sunbeam  shone  so  bright 
Upon  his  happy  way, 
He  pierced  the  shadow  with  his  light 
And  frightened  him  away. 


138 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A  STREET  GAMIN 

Well  governor  you  do  look  slick, 
But  yer  can't  give  me  guff ; 
I  guess  you  think  I  be  a  fool, 
Or  not  quite  up  to  snuff? 

Yer  really  want  ter  know,  yer  say, 
What  we  street  duffers  do? 
Gosh !  if  yer  ain't  the  queerest  cud 
I  ever  had  to  chew. 

Yer  want  ter  put  it  in  a  book 
That  yer  a-goin'  to  sell? 
Well  governor,  yer  welcome  to't, 
But  there  ain't  much  ter  tell. 

Me  dad  he  was  a  gintleman, 
A-keepin'  of  a  bar, 
Before  he  got  ter  swillin'  so, — 
I  never  hed  no  ma. 

But  one  dark  night  he  got  so  bad 
I  had  to  take  a  sneak, 
An'  while  he  was  a  chasin'  me 
He  fell  inter  the  creek. 

I  s'pose  you'll  think  'twas  mighty  queer 
I  blubbered  an'  felt  bad, 
Yer  see  I  had  ter  love  him  some  — 
Yer  know  he  was  me  dad. 


139 


But  by-and-by  I  got  a  pal, — 
Why,  don't  yer  know,  a  pard?  — 
When  I  was  down  upon  me  luck 
An'  things  went  mighty  hard, 

He  helped  me  if  he  had  the  swag, 
He  alluz  was  a  brick ; 
But  pretty  soon  there  came  a  time 
That  made  me  mighty  sick. 

One  day  we  two  wuz  tossin'  cops 
Upon  a  pavin'  stun, 
When  up  the  street  there  came  a  cab, 
The  hosses  on  the  run. 

And  right  in  front  uv  that  durned  team, 

A  runnin'  fit  ter  drop, 

Was  jest  the  purtiest  little  gal, 

It  made  me  knocker  stop. 

But  Jim  he  jumped  as  quick  as  whiz 
An'  snatched  the  little  girl, 
An'  then  the  cab  went  thund'rin*  by, 
An'  all  was  in  a  whirl. 

But  when  I  got  me  senses  back  — 
For  somethin'  hit  me  head  — 
An'  looked  around  for  Jim,  me  pal, 
He  was  a  lyin'  dead. 


140 


I  laid  right  down  upon  the  stones 
An'  bellowed  side  er  Jim  ; 
He  was  the  only  pal  I  had 
An'  I'd  er  died  for  him. 

Then  all  the  swell  folks  in  the  cab- 
Got  out  an'  stood  around, 
They  all  took  off  their  hats  to  Jim 
A  lyin'  on  the  ground. 

There  was  a  lady  in  the  crowd 
Dressed  up  alfired  grand, 
With  silk  an'  lace  upon  her  togs 
An'  rings  upon  her  hand. 

She  went  right  up  ter  my  poor  pard,. 
An'  then  knelt  down  by  him, 
An'  held  his  head  upon  her  arm ; 
That's  jest  like  some  them  wim. 

She  looked  so  mighty  beaut*  an*  good, 
A  strokin*  cully's  head, 
Her  eyes  they  were  so  sorrowful, 
I  wished  'twas  me  that's  dead. 

I  know  I'd  been  a  better  chap 
If  I  had  had  a  ma, 
Or  some  one  good  ter  talk  ter  me,. 
An'  look  at  me  like  her. 


141 


She  said  it  warn't  so  bad  ter  die 
If  we  but  loved  the  Farder 
He's  got  a  swell  place  in  the  sky, 
An'  He  can  make  us  gladder; 

She  said  some  day  that  I  might  go 
And  live  with  that  big  swell, 
But  all  them  preacher  duffers  say 
They  know  we'll  go  ter  hell. 

Well,  them  air  snobs,  they  did  the  square 
By  me  an'  my  poor  pal, 
They  dressed  him  up  in  dandy  togs 
An'  made  a  funeral. 

They  got  a  real  howler  too, 
What  said  that  God  is   love, 
An'  that  he  cared  as  much  for  Jim 
As  any  other  cove. 

An'  there  was  posies  all  round  Jim, 
He  had  a  bran  new  suit, 
The  first  un  that  he  ever  had, 
An'  everything  was  beaut. 

An'  when  the  preacher  told  'bout  Jim, 
How  'twas  he  got  the  swipe, 
I  saw  most  all  them  dandy  swells 
A-feelin'  for  a  wipe. 


142 


I  couldn't  blink  a  wink  that  night 
After  I  douced  the  glim, 
All  I  could  do  was  kick  about, 
An*  blubber  'n'  think  o'  Jim, 

An'  loosin'  cully  seemed  to  bust 
The  luck  I'd  had  a  spell, 
I  couldn't  get  a  trot  to  do 
An'  papes  they  wouldn't  sell. 

An'  then  I  lost  the  snuggery 
That  we  hed  hed  together, 
An'  so  I  hed  ter  bunk  out  doors 
In  mighty  nippin'  weather. 

An'  when  I  couldn't  find  a  snug, 

I  jest  walked  up  an'  down ; 

The  glims  they  looked  so  warm  an'  bright 

In  houses  up  in  town, 

It  made  me  sick  to  look  at  um, 

An'  then  I'd  go  away, 

An'  walk,  an'  walk,  an'  walk,  an'  walk, 

Until  it  got  to  day. 

Sometimes  I'd  think  uv  things  I'd  heard, 
But  they  wuz  mighty  dim, 
About  the  gov'ner  in  the  sky 
And  how  folks  prayed  to  him, 


143 


An'  then  I'd  ask  him  for  some  grub 
An'  togs  ter  keep  me  warm, 
An'  jest  some  place  ter  lay  me  head 
Inside  out  of  the  storm ; 

I  didn't  ax  him  for  a  bed, 
But  jest  some  straws,  you  see, 
An'  then  I'd  hark  an'  try  ter  hear 
If  he  would  answer  me. 

But  all  I'd  hear  was  rumblin'  wheels,. 
An*  jinglin'  horse  car  bells, 
He  never  cares  for  such  as  me, 
He  goes  in  for  them  swells. 

About  that  time  I  jined  the  gang, 
An'  then  we  bust  the  bank ; 
They  was  a  mighty  wicked  crowd 
That  cussed  an'  fit  an'  drank. 

I  didn't  know  how  bad  they  was 

Until  we  made  the  deal, 

An'  then  they'd  carved  me  quick  as  wink 

Ef  I'd  a  dared  ter  squeal. 

Then  next  we  tried  a  big  stone  front 
Where  there  was  lots  of  tin ; 
Big  Devil  Dick,  he  bust  a  light 
An'  then  he  put  me  in. 


144 


I  was  a-creepin'  ter  the  door, 
Ter  let  the  fellers  in, 
When  all  at  once  there  was  a  flash 
An'  then  an  awful  din. 

But  when  I  got  me  senses  back 
After  the  shootin'  fuss, 
I  was  down  in  the  hospital, 
With  such  a  jolly  nuss. 

Them  was  about  the  bulliest  days 
That  ever  I  hev  hed, 

With  such  good  things  to  stuff  an'  swill 
An'  such  a  dozy  bed. 

You  see  the  gang  had  all  been  tuck 
But  Dick,  an'  he  lay  low, 
An'  I  was  sech  a  little  duck 
The  jedge,  he  let  me  go. 

An'  when  I  left  the  hospital, 
'Twas  mighty  hard  ter  leave, 
I  was  a-lookin  limp  an'  white 
An'  hed  one  empty  sleeve. 

But  now  the  luck  all  comes  my  way  — 
I've  got  another  pard  — 
For  folks  is  mighty  good  ter  me 
An'  times  they  aint  so  hard. 


145 


An'  now  sometimes  I  gets  a  tip, 
A  nickel  or  a  dime, 
An'  sometimes  when  the  biz  is  dull 
I  get  a  little  time. 

Why  don't  you  know?  I  am  a  trot 
Down  at  the  new  hotel, 
It  is  a  mighty  shiny  place, 
An'  ev'ry thing  is  swell. 

You've  really  been  a-chalkin'  it? 
Well,  if  yer  ain't  a  cad ; 
I  hope  yer've  put  it  rather  light, 
Then  I  won't  seem  so  bad. 

Day,  reditor,  I'm  much  obliged 
For  such  a  heap  of  tin ; 
But  that's  the  sarvants'  gong  yer  hear 
An'  I  must  go  ter  din. 


146 


POEMS     OF    OLD     NEW 
ENGLAND 


THE  DESERTED  HOMESTEAD 

Poor  are  the  pilgrims  on  life's  stony  way 
Who,  turning  from  the  beaten  track  astray, 
To  some  secluded  spot,  or  quiet  roof, 
Where  once  perchance  they  spent  their  happy 

youth ; 

Who  ne'er  have  felt  at  each  familiar  turn, 
With  eyes  that  fill   and  hearts  that  throb  and 

burn, 

The  quiet  charms  of  dear  familiar  ways. 
The  half  forgotten  joys  of  other  days. 

How  well  do  I  recall  that  happy  day 

When  turning  from  the  noisy  world  away 

By  quiet  lanes  that  never  failed  to  charm, 

I  sought  my  home,  the  old  deserted  farm. 

It  was  a  winsome  day  in  early  fall, 

A  time  when  nature  broodeth  over  all 

Her  broad  domain  of  fruitful  fields  and  woods, 

And  woos  the  wand'rer  in  her  gayest  moods. 

I  heard  the  south  wind  whisper  to  the  corn, 

Its  pennons  streamed  and  rustled  back  in  scorn ; 

Each  grain  field  caught  the  sunbeams  in  their 

flight 

And  shot  them  back  in  mellow  amber  light ; 
In  deeper  shades  the  birches'  silver  sheen 
Shed  softest  rays  the  emerald  boughs  between, 
The  distant  hills  were  robed  in  gold  and  dun 
And  hazy  skies  subdued  the  summer  sun ; 

149 


Fair  orchards  laden  with  their  golden  fruit 
And  gardens  rich  in  bursting  pod  and  root 
Diversified  the  scene,  and  to  my  eyes 
Seemed  like  a  Peri's  dream  of  Paradise. 
The  merry  harvesters  were  all  a-field, 
(Keen  are  the  scythes  and  sickles  that  they  wield), 
With  jocund  song,  the  reaper  and  the  mower 
Went  through  the  fields  and  garnered  in  the  store, 
While  ripe'ning  nuts,  from  tall  majestic  trees 
Came  down  in  showers  before  the  merry  breeze, 
Gay  squirrels  scolding  frisked  from  limb  to  limb 
And  woke  the  woods  and  swelled  the  harvest 

hymn; 

And  as  I  journeyed  through  that  pleasant  lane 
Where  peace  and  plenty  seemed  to  ever  reign, 
I  thought  how  sordid  is  our  bitter  strife 
For  gold  beside  this  quiet  country  life. 

But  now  the  dear  old  homestead  conies  in  sight 

Upon  the  hill  above  me,  on  the  right, — 

Ah !  can  it  be  the  same,  the  grand  old  place, 

The  mansion  on  the  hill,  that  oft  my  face 

In  childhood's  happy  days  so  eager  spied, 

The  home  that  was  our  father's  joy  and  pride, 

That  kin  had  held  two  hundred  years  and  more, 

Since  first  the  Pilgrims  landed  on  this  shore? 

Or  is  it  that  a  flood  of  blinding  tears 

And  all  the  growth  and  change  of  many  years 

Have  come  between  me  and  the  dear  old  scene, 

150 


And  make  my  youthful  palace  seem  so  mean?' 
O  gold !  that  robs  this  world  of  half  its  wealth 
O  lore !  that  cheats  the  soul  of  joy  and  health, 
I'd  blot  these  weary  years  from  heart  and  brain 
To  live  that  sweet  delusion  o'er  again. 
But  wherefore  mourn,  or  sigh,  or  think  it  strange,. 
Earth   moves,    time  flies,  man    grows   and   all 
things  change. 

'Tis  clearer  now,  I  see  the  gable  roof 
Look  outward  from  the  elm-tree's  verdant  woof 
Like  some  familiar  face,  and  lower  still 
The  friendly  wild-rose  on  the  window  sill, 
Where  oft  I  sat  when  day  and  toil  were  o'er, 
And  longed  to  roam  the  world  on  sea  and  shore,. 
And  dreamed  of  love  and  fame  and  cruel  wars,. 
Awhile  the  night  wind  whispered  to  the  stars. 
Ah  yes !   I  see  the  woodbine  on  the  ell, 
The  towering  welisweep  that  I  knew  so  well, 
And  on  the  barn  the  same  old  weather-vane 
That  told  of  yore  of  sunshine  and  of  rain. 
But  half  the  quaint  old  roof  has  fallen  in 
And  winter  blasts  have  worn  its  shingles  thin, 
While  each  dejected  window-sash  complains 
That  storms  and  stones  have  robbed  it   of  its 

panes ; 
Upon   one    hinge    the    front   door   grinds    and 

squeaks, 
Like  some  poor  human  thing  it  plainly  speaks 


Of  sad  neglect  and  summer  suns  and  rains 
That  make  it  old  and  fill  its  joints  with  pains. 

Here  is  the  ancient  fire-place,  broad  and  tall, 
How  cheerful  was  its  firelight  on  the  wall ; 
Here  oft  I  sat  on  stormy  winter  nights 
And  watched  the  restless  ever-changing  lights 
Upon  the  logs,  or  traced  a  tiny  spark 
Far  up  the  dingy  flue  into  the  dark ; 
'Twas  by  this  stone  that  grandma  used  to  sit 
Upon  those  winter  eves  and  drowse  and  knit, 
While  I  would  watch  the  stocking  as  it  grew 
And  count  the  stitches  while  the  needles  flew, 
And  seated  by  the  cosy  kitchen  hearth 
We  passed  the  hours  in  jest  and  merry  laugh 
That  mocked  the  fury  of  the  howling  storm  — 
Then  came   the   thought,  how    dear  a  place  is 
home. 

Some  prudent  squirrel  leaves  his  winter  store 
Upon  the  landing  of  my  chamber  door, 
And  rude  rats  scamper  o'er  the  floor  and  hide 
Behind  the  dingy  walls  that  were  my  pride ; 
For  vermin  comes  to  gloat  o'er  man's  decay, 
And  haunt  his  home  when  he  has  passed  away. 
But  through  the  broken  window  dark  with  mold 
I  see  the  dreamy  hills  I  knew  of  old ; 
And  now  it  seemeth  like  a  few  short  hours 
Since  first  I  scaled  those  silent  mountain  towers. — 


152 


Majestic  hills !   I  love  thy  purple  range, 

I  love  thee  now,  and  thou  wilt  never  change. 

Here  is  the  barn, —  Ah!   what  a  place  to  play 
When  mow  and  loft  are  filled  with  new-mown 

hay, 

And  all  the  air  is  sweet  with  clover  scent — 
To  climb  the  beams  and  jump  from  bent  to  bent, 
Or  search  the  hay-mows  for  a  stolen  nest ; 
Of  all  the  play-rooms  known  this  is  the  best. 
And  when  I  gaze  adown  yon  winding  lane, 
My  age  departs  and  youth  comes  back  again. 
I  see  a  barefoot  boy  in  homely  dress, 
The  prince  of  that  rich  kingdom,  happiness, 
A  brimless  palmleaf  is  his  regal  crown, 
His  ruddy  cheeks  are  tinged  with  russet  brown, 
His  sunny  face  could  never  wear  a  cloud, 
No  rich  estates  could  make  him  half  so  proud, 
His  scepter  is  a  leafless  maple  browse, 
His  Majesty  is  driving  home  the  cows. 

How  peaceful  is  yon  meadows'  stretch  of  green, 
In  sunset  light,  the  autumn  hills  between, 
Deep  down  beneath  the  grass,  by  reed  and  rock 
The  little  brook  sings  to  the  meadow  lark, 
Right  merrily  he  sings  the  livelong  day 
To  cheer  the  weary  farmer  with  his  lay. 
What  pain  would  fill  his  heart  if  father  knew 
That  witch-grass  claimed  the  fields  where  clover 
grew, 

153 


That  all  the  meadow  hay  was  filled  with  swale, 

His  cherished  wood-lot  stripped  for  tie  and  rail, 

That  all  the  pasture-lots  were  choked  with  brush, 

The  meadow  lowlands  grown  to  reed  and  rush ; 

If  he  could  see  the  ancient  orchard's  rows 

Of  stately  trees  uprooted  by  the  blows 

That  strip  the  rotting  shingles  from  the  shed 

And  shake  the  crazy  rafters  overhead, 

That  raze  the  gates  and  fences  to  the  ground, 

And  scatter  direst  desolation  round  ; 

If  he  could  see  the  gruesome  foreign  hordes 

That  gather  round  our  old-time  festal  boards, 

Who  swarm  upon  these  farms  and  till  our  fields 

And  turn  our  ancient  looms  and  spinning-wheels ; 

A  folk  who  know  no  law  but  fire  and  steel, 

Who  do  not  glory  in  the  nation's  weal, 

Who  cannot  speak  or  write  our  mother  tongue, 

Who  feel  no  thrill  when  freedom's  songs  are  sung, 

A  class  who  hate  all  forms  of  government 

And  fill  this  happy  land  with  discontent ; 

Ah !  well  for  him  his  humble  life  was  taken 

Before  New  England  homesteads  were  forsaken. 

'Tis  eventide,  the  shades  of  night  draw  near 
And  one  by  one  the  silent  stars  appear, 
Those  silver  tapers  that  the  angels  hold 
Above  the  clouds  to  view  the  sleeping  wold, 
The  night-winds  faintly  whisper  as  they  pass, 
A  cricket  chirps  beside  me  in  the  grass, 

154 


The  elm-tree  gently  stirs  its  countless  leaves, 

And  over  all  a  benediction  breathes 

More  deep  than  sleep,  more  tranquil  than  the 

calms 

Of  some  far  oasis  with  breathless  palms, — 
But  hark !  upon  the  air  so  deep  and  still 
Rude  breaks  the  sound  of  wheels  upon  the  hill, 
The  wheels  that  bear  me  from  this  sweet  retreat 
Back  to  the  city,  rife  with  dust  and  heat. 

Farewell !   farewell !  fair  haven  of  my  youth, 
Thou  sweet  abode  of  innocence  and  truth, 
And  though  my  feet  may  leave  thee  far  behind, 
No  chance  or  change  shall  blot  thee  from  my 

mind. 

And  when  at  eve  the  city  streets  are  hot 
Fond  memory  shall  lead  me  to  this  spot, 
Then  for  the  din,  the  rumble  and  the  grind, 
Mine  ears  shall  hear  the  murmur  of  the  wind ; 
And  when  at  last  life's  little  day  is  spent 
And  death  shall  claim  this  form,  infirm  and  bent, 
I  beg  some  friend  to  whom  I  once  was  dear, 
To  break  the  turf  and  lay  the  poet  here. 
Here  'neath  the  elm  where  every  idle  breath 
Shall  murmur  low  a  requiem  for  death, 
Where  first  in  spring  the  lilac  sheds  its  bloom 
And  last  in  fall  the  verdure  gathers  gloom ; 
That  men  may  know  of  all  the  classic  ground 
Where  poets  sleep,  the  leagued  world  around, 

155 


I  place  New  England  high  above  the  rest, 
I  hold  this  spot  the  fairest  and  the  best. 


GETTIN'  HUM 

There  air  some  mighty  purty  scenes 

Ter  see  upon  the  farm, 

An'  there  ain't  nothin'  in  the  town 

Ter  my  notion  ter  charm 

Yer  like  those  homely  kentry  scenes, 

With  all  their  quiet  ways, 

Instead  o'  everything  agog, 

An'  everything  ablaze. 

I  went  down  ter  the  city  once 

Ter  see  what  I  could  see, 

An*  got  alfired  lonesome  like 

An'  blue  as  I  could  be ; 

The  folks  all  look  so  worried  like 

An'  never  stop  ter  talk, 

An'  don't  say  nuthin'  'bout  the  craps, 

An'  gallup  when  they  walk. 

I  didn't  see  a  bit  o'  grass, 

Or  any  kind  o'  land, 

Or  anything  but  bricks  and  stun 

An'  houses  built  so  grand 

You'd  hardly  dast  ter  look  at  'em, 

An'  made  so  tarnal  high 

156 


You'd  kinder  hev  ter  hold  yer  breath 
Whenever  yer  went  by. 

The  furniture  is  all  so  soft 

Made  out  o'  plush  and  hair, 

It  kinder  seemed  ter  say  ter  you 

Sit  down  on  me  with  care ; 

I  didn't  sit  down  good  and  hard 

The  whole  time  I  wuz  there  — 

I  tell  yer  what,  I  longed  sometimes 

Fur  my  ole  straight-backed  chair. 

My  cousins  were  so  tarnal  p'lite 
An'  made  so  many  bones 
About  my  comin'  down  ter  town, 
An'  called  me  Mr.  Jones, 
An'  axed  sech  funny  questions  too, 
They  made  me  want  ter  run, 
I'd  gin  a  V  ter  heard  um  say 
How  be  yer,  Jonathan." 

I  shook  the  dust  off  o'  my  feet 
When  I  had  stayed  a  week, 
And  got  out  of  that  Babylon, 
Where  everything  wuz  Greek, 
An'  homes  were  kept  so  mighty  fine 
You'd  think  they're  made  for  kings, 
With  beds  that  wouldn't  let  yer  sleep 
For  fear  you'd  bust  their  springs. 


157 


When  I  gut  hum  'twas  harvest  time 

An'  there  wuz  golden  corn 

A-standin'  waitin'  in  the  shocks, 

An'  mother's  dinner  horn 

Cum  ringin'  cheery  down  the  road, 

It  sounded  mighty  sweet, 

It  seemed  ter  say,  cum  home  old  man 

An'  git  somethin'  ter  eat. 

An'  there  wuz  cattle  in  the  fields 

An'  punkins  on  the  vines 

An'  flaming  maples  in  the  woods 

Among  the  spruce  an'  pines, 

An'  squirrels  jumped  from  limb  to  limb 

Where  there  was  nuts  to  spare, 

An'  autumn's  haze  wuz  on  the  hills, 

An'  peace  wuz  in  the  air. 

An'  when  I  saw  our  little  home 

A-nestlin'  in  the  trees, 

Jest  in  the  sunshine  an'  the  shade 

With  jest  a  bit  o'  breeze, 

I'll  'low  my  heart  swelled  up  a  bit 

An'  kept  a-swellin'  more, 

Until  it  fairly  bust  itself 

With  Hannah  at  the  door. 

An'  when  she  hugged  me  roun'  the  neck 
An'  kissed  me  on  the  cheek, 


158 


An'  said,  "  how  be  yer,  Jonathan," 
I  swow,  I  couldn't  speak. 
'Twuz  worth  a  year  of  city  life, 
An'  more  than  kingdom  come  — 
'Bout  all  the  fun  o'  goin'  off 
Is  jest  a  gettin'  hum. 


SONG  OF  THE  PLOUGHMAN 

Bring  forth  the  plough,  the  frost  is  out, 
And  spring  is  here  without  a  doubt; 
Upon  the  cattle  put  their  yoke, 
The  field  and  fallow  must  be  broke, 
For  he  who  reaps  in  harvesting 
Must  sow  his  seeds  in  early  spring. 

The  plough  is  brought  from  loft  or  shed, 
And  forth  the  sturdy  steers  are  led, 
The  yoke  is  placed  upon  their  necks, 
The  plough  is  scoured  all  free  from  specks, 
Then  Sam,  the  plough  boy,  whip  in  hand, 
Beside  the  cattle  takes  his  stand. 

Turn,  turn,  turn,  empty  are  crib  and  bin, 
Turn,  turn,  turn,  ploughing  the  daisies  in, 
Turn,  turn,  turn,  breaking  the  tufted  sward, 
Turn,  turn,  turn,  reaping  a  rich  reward. 


159 


The  patient  cattle  plod  along, 

Their  necks  are  bent,  the  yoke  is  strong ; 

The  gleaming  plough-share  cleaves  the  earth,. 

The  burning  sunbeams  dance  in  mirth, 

And  oft  the  farmer  stops  the  plough 

And  wipes  the  sweat  from  off  his  brow. 

At  every  turn  the  plough-boy's  "  Gee," 
Across  the  field  makes  melody, 
Full  well  the  cattle  know  his  whip, 
They  oft  have  felt  its  stinging  tip, 
Yet  spite  of  muzzles  as  they  pass, 
They  stop  to  nip  the  tender  grass. 

Turn,  turn,  turn,  empty  are  crib  and  bin, 
Turn,  turn,  turn,  ploughing  the  daisies  in, 
Turn,  turn,  turn,  breaking  the  tufted  sward, 
Turn,  turn,  turn,  reaping  a  rich  reward. 

The  robin  greets  the  farmers'  toil 
With  notes  of  joy,  and  shares  the  spoil ; 
Across  the  fresh  turned  earth  he  hops, 
Before  a  luscious  worm  he  stops, 
Then  chirps,  "  this  farmer's  mighty  good 
To  plough  all  day  to  find  me  food." 

At  noon  the  plough-boy  thunders  "  whoa," 
A  word  that  well  the  oxen  know, 
And  one  they  always  will  obey, 
And  they  are  left  to  meal  and  hay ; 

160 


Meanwhile  the  farm  hands  never  fail 
To  empty  clean  the  dinner  pail. 

Turn,  turn,  turn,  empty  are  crib  and  bin, 
Turn,  turn,  turn,  ploughing  the  daisies  in, 
Turn,  turn,  turn,  breaking  the  tufted  sward, 
Turn,  turn,  turn,  reaping  a  rich  reward. 

The  dinner  done  they're  off  again  — 
These  farmers  are  no  idle  men  — 
He  earns  his  bread  who  tills  the  soil 
By  honest  sweat  and  patient  toil ; 
Still  up  and  down  with  ceaseless  tread, 
This  is  the  way  his  babes  are  fed. 

And  when  the  plough-point  strikes  a  rock 
And  sends  it  back  with  sudden  shock, 
To  dig  the  farmer  in  the  ribs, 
He  takes  fresh  hold  upon  the  nibs, 
And  pulls  the  plough  back  into  place, 
And  moves  along  with  cheery  face. 

Turn,  turn,  turn,  empty  are  crib  and  bin, 
Turn,  turn,  turn,  ploughing  the  daisies  in, 
Turn,  turn,  turn,  breaking  the  tufted  sward, 
Turn,  turn,  turn,  reaping  a  rich  reward. 

The  weary  oxen  reek  with  sweat, 
The  farmer's  cotton  shirt  is  wet, 
Still  up  and  down  he  patient  goes, 
Turning  those  narrow  clean-cut  rows, 

161 


Turning  the  furrows  one  by  one 
Until  the  long  bright  day  is  done. 

Then  towards  the  barn  the  cattle  head 
Where  they  are  stalled  and  groomed  and  fed. 
But  still  in  sleep  they  hear  the  cracks 
Of  Sam's  long  whip  across  their  backs, 
And  stir  uneasy  in  their  stalls 
Until  the  new  milch  heifer  bawls. 

And  e'en  the  farmer  old  and  wise 
Oft  rises  in  his  bed  and  cries  — 
'  Whoa!   Sam,  look  out,  we've  struck  a  rock!" 
And  then  he  hears  the  kitchen  clock 
Just  striking  three,  so  down  he  lies 
And  sleep  soon  holds  his  tired  eyes. 

Turn,  turn,  turn,  empty  are  crib  and  bin, 
Turn,  turn,  turn,  ploughing  the  daisies  in, 
Turn,  turn,  turn,  breaking  the  tufted  sward, 
Turn,  turn,  turn,  reaping  a  rich  reward. 


BIL1N'  SAP 

You  boys  all  know  how  in  the  airly  Spring, 
Wai,  say  about  the  time  the  bluebird  comes, 
How  'tis  the  groun'  begins  ter  thaw  an'  freeze 
Along  the  sunny  slopes  beside  the  woods, 

162 


An'  how  the  sap  goes  creepin'  up  by  day 

Inter  the  limbs  an'  shoots  upon  the  trees 

An'  how  the  cold  at  night  will  send  it  back 

Agin  a-racin'  down  into  the  roots 

Ter  keep  all  snug  and  warm  till  mornin'  conies. 

The  snow  aint  gone  'cept  here  an'  there  a  bit 

Upon  the  hills  that  look  all  bare  and  burnt 

Instead  o'  cold  an'  kinder  lonesome  too, 

Like  some  poor  robin  that  yer  see  in  fall 

After  the  rest  have  gone  an'  snow  has  come, 

A-hoppin'  round  upon  a  leafless  limb 

Perkin'  his  feathers  up  an'  makin'  b'lieve 

That  he  aint  cold  an'  mighty  lonesome  too. 

It  aint  so  piercin'  cold  these  days  except 

By  spells,  but  now  an'  then  the  rough  March 

wind 

Gits  on  a  rampage  an'  careers  about 
An'  howls  in  at  the  cracks  an'  shakes  the  house 
Like  he  was  mad, — That's  Winter's  dyin'  kick. 

Wai,  jest  about  this  time  it  gits  ter  look 
Like  sugarin',  so  when  the  wind  gits  right 
An'  it  will  freeze  by  night  an'  thaw  by  day, 
Then  boys  look  out  fer  jest  a  rush  o'  sap ; 
'Tis  then  we  git  the  spiles  an'  buckets  out 
An'  set  the  camp.     I  tell  you  what  'tis  fun 
This  tappin'  trees,  sendin'  the  gleamin'  bit 
Inter  the  wood,  seein'  the  shavin's  creep 
Out  on  the  bit  an'  fall  upon  the  snow 

163 


Wet  with  the  life  blood  of  the  mighty  tree ; 
An'  then  ter  see  the  sap  come  spirtin'  out 
As  bright  and  sparklin'  as  the  mornin'  dew, 
An'  then  ter  hear  it  drop  into  the  pail 
As  stiddy  as  an  ole-time  wooden  clock  — 
A  kinder  sayin' — drink,  drink,  drink  ; 
A  drop  aint  much  yer  say,  wal,  no.  but  then 
When  you've  a  thousand  trees  a-tickin'  so 
You'll  find  out  soon  it  piles  the  sap  up  fast, 
An'  that's  jest  what  this  tale  is  comin'  to. 
When  sap  has  been  a-runnin'  for  a  week 
Right  smart,  that  is  it  does  not  run  much  nights, 
The  storage  tubs  an'  pans  git  brimmin'  full 
An'  runnin'  over  too,  'tis  then  the  boys 
Go  up  ter  camp  ter  bile  the  sap  at  night. 
But  they  are  used  to  that  'ere  kind  o'  thing 
An'  there  aint  nuthin*  they  would  ruther  do. 

They  git  a  peck  o'  apples  from  the  bin, 
Somebut'nuts  an'  some  chestnuts  from  up  stairs, 
An'  half  a  dozen  ears  of  popcorn  too, 
An'  p'raps  a  dozen  eggs  to  help  along, 
An'  then  they  start  up  to  the  sugar  house ; 
The  moon  is  mebbe  three  hours  high  by  then 
An'  jest  a-smilin'  out  her  purtiest, 
Turnin'  the  snow  to  sparklin'  diamonds 
An'  makin'  gloomy  shadows  'hind  the  trees. 
The  sugar  house  looks  cheerfuller  than  home 
With  its  great  fire  a-glowin'  in  the  arch, 

164 


An'  steam  a-steamin'  out  through  every  crack. 
Wai,  fust  they  set  ter  work  ter  fill  the  pan 
An'  git  the  fire  to  goin'  good  an'  hot 
An'  then  they  try  to  have  a  little  fun. 
The  eggs  are  dropped  inter  the  hoppin'  sap 
An'  biled,  the  apples  toasted  by  the  coals, 
The  chestnuts  roasted  hot,  and  but'nuts  cracked, 
An'  then  they  spread  some  blankets  on  the  floor 
Before  the  glowin'  arch  where  it  is  warm, 
An*  set  down  for  a  feast  an'  story  tell. 

And  sech  tales  as  them  country  boys  can  tell 
Things  that  they've  read  out  of  the  garret  store 
Of  books  an'  papers  on  a  winter's  night. 
Stories  of  Injun  fightin'  on  the  plains, 
An'  huntin'  grizzlies  on  the  mountain  wilds 
An'  trackin'  antelopes  across  the  snow. 
With  jungle  tales  an'  stories  of  the  east. 
An'  hand  ter  hand  encounters  with  the  lion, 
An'  tigers  mad  with  hunger  and  with  wounds, 
Of  buried  treasures  in  the  mountain's  side, 
An'  pirate  raids  upon  the  open  sea. 
An'  all  the  time  the  fitful  firelight  gleams 
An'  dances  in  the  arch,  sendin'  its  glow 
Far  out  inter  the  gloom,  then  sinkin'  low 
Leaves  all  the  scene  in  dark  mysterious  shade. 

An'  ev'ry  now  and  then  the  howlin'  wind 
Shrieks  in  the  trees  like  witches  ridin'  by, 

165 


Or  makes  the  big  old  maple  limbs  ter  squeak 
An'  groan,  then  in  some  sudden  lull  the  crust 
Will  crack  an'  snap  like  ter  the  sharp  report 
O'  that  dread  rifle  that  the  red  man  bears, 
An'  owls  with  hideous  hoots  fill  up  the  gaps. 
An'  as  each  tale  grows  skeerier  than  the  last 
The  boys  draw  nearer  to  the  cheerful  fire 
An*  peer  inter  the  gloom  with  frightened  eyes ; 
An'  so  they  pass  the  cold  un'arthly  night 
A-chankin'  apples  an'  a-spinnin'  yarns 
An*  skeerin'  one  another  nigh  to  death 
Until  the  gleamin'  stars  begin  to  fade 
An'  in  the  east  there  comes  a  yaller  streak. 
An'  then  they  pour  the  syrup  in  a  tub, 
Then  hitch  it  tight  upon  the  ol'  hand  sled 
An'  draw  it  home  jest  as  the  breakin'  day 
Begins  to  chase  the  shadows  o'er  the  snow. 


MA'S  POSY  BEDS 

When  I  come  hum  from  work  at  noon 

As  tired  as  I  can  be, 

There  is  one  mighty  purty  scene 

It  does  me  good  ter  see, 

An*  that  is  mother's  posy  beds, 

A-blushin'  fit  to  kill, 

With  butterflies  and  bees  around, 

A-drinkin'  o'  their  fill. 


166 


The  air  is  brimmin'  over  with 
A  hundred  different  scents 
That  come  from  the  syringa  bush 
Beside  the  garden  fence 
An'  rose-bushes  an'  lilacs  tall 
That  grow  along  the  walk,— 
But  they  aint  none  o'  them  so  gay 
As  my  ole  hollyhock. 

Somehow  I  like  the  good  ole  kinds 

O'  posies  full  as  well, 

(Instead  o'  those  with  Latin  names 

That  nobody  can  spell), 

Like  mirigold  an'  asterziz 

An'  caliopsis  fair, 

An'  bleedin'  hearts  an'  arder  tongues 

An'  ferns  an'  maidenhair. 

Once  when  I'ze  down  ter  Bosten  town, 

As  I  wuz  goin'  past, 

I  turned  inter  a  posy  place 

Where  everything  wuz  glass, 

An'  all  the  posies  looked  so  pale 

As  though  they'd  like  ter  die, 

Jest  like  them  little  city  waifs, 

It  made  me  want  ter  cry. 

I  tell  yer  what,  the  country  is 
The  place  ter  make  things  grow, 


167 


No  matter  what  the  crap  may  be, 

The  city  haint  no  show ; 

An'  as  for  raisin'  human  .souls 

An'  givin'  them  a  breath 

O'  God's  free  air  an'  sunlight  too, 

We  beat  um  all  ter  death. 


SONG  OF  THE  WOODSMAN 

I  hie  me  away  to  the  forest  old 

On  a.  winter's  morn  when  the  air  is  cold 

And  the  white  snow  gleams  in  the  morning  sun 

And  every  twig  is  a  diamond, 

The  trees  are  bending  beneath  the  snow 

That  falls  in  showers  as  the  cold  winds  blow, 

A  heavy  load  bears  the  evergreen 

And  scarce  a  leaf  of  the  laurel  is  seen. 

With  a  steady  stroke  at  the  tallest  oak 

The  forest  ever  grows, 

I'll  lay  it  low  in  the  gleaming  snow 

To  music  of  my  blows ; 

Then  gaily  sing  while  the  woodlands  ring 

With  echoes  of  the  ax, 

Though  the  trees  are  tall  I'll  conquer  them  all 

And  break  their  sturdy  backs. 

I  take  my  stand  by  the  lordly  tree 
That  now  hath  stood  full  a  century 

168 


And  raised  on  high  its  majestic  form 

In  the  Summer  breeze  and  the  Winter's  storm ; 

I  measure  it  with  a  woodman's  eye, 

Its  towering  form  'gainst  the  Winter  sky, 

And  choose  the  spot  where  the  tree  must  fall 

With  a  deafening  crash,  at  the  woodman's  call. 

With  a  steady  stroke  at  the  tallest  oak 

The  forest  ever  grows, 

I'll  lay  it  low  in  the  gleaming  snow 

To  music  of  my  blows ; 

Then  gaily  sing  while  the  woodlands  ring 

With  echoes  of  the  ax, 

Though  the  trees  are  tall  I'll  conquer   them  all 

And  break  their  sturdy  backs. 

The  bright  ax  gleams  as  it  goes  up  slow 

And  then  it  falls  with  a  ringing  blow, 

The  sharp  blade  sinks  in  the  tender  sap 

And  falling  chips  leave  a  bleeding  gap, 

And  wide  and  deep  grows  the  woodman's  cut 

As  he  hews  away  at  the  royal  butt, 

And  one  by  one  through  the  yearly  rings 

The  bright  ax  sinks  while  the  woodman  sings. 

With  a  steady  stroke  at  the  tallest  oak 
The  forest  ever  grows, 
I'll  lay  it  low  in  the  gleaming  snow 
To  music  of  my  blows ; 

169 


Then  gaily  sing  while  the  woodlands  ring 
To  echoes  of  the  ax, 

Though  the  trees  are  tall  I'll  conquer  them  all 
And  break  their  sturdy  backs. 

A  squirrel  starts  from  his  winter  hole 

Where  he  keeps  house  in  a  hollow  bole 

And  views  the  stranger  with  curious  eyes, 

(And  barks  and  chirps)  as  the  ax  he  plies ; 

A  snow-bird  too  from  a  distant  limb 

Flies  down  to  take  a  peep  at  him, 

And  waits  and  chirps  till  the  lunch  hour  comes, 

Then  makes  a  meal  on  the  scattered  crumbs. 

With  a  steady  stroke  at  the  tallest  oak 

The  forest  ever  grows, 

I'll  lay  it  low  in  the  gleaming  snow 

To  music  of  my  blows ; 

Then  gaily  sing  while  the  woodlands  ring 

To  echoes  of  the  ax. 

Though  the  trees  are  tall  I'll  conquer  them  all 

And  break  their  sturdy  backs. 

And  soon  the  woodsman  with  cautious  eye 

Will  view  the  top  in  the  steel-blue  sky 

To  see  if  the  tree  has  begun  to  lean, 

Or  if  a  stir  in  its  twigs  are  seen ; 

Then  comes  a  quake  through  the  noble  tree, 

As  though  it  writhed  at  its  destiny, 


170 


And  then  a  creak  as  the  firm  wood  breaks, 
And  the  monarch  falls  and  the  firm  earth  shakes. 

With  a  steady  stroke  at  the  tallest  oak 

The  forest  ever  grows, 

I'll  lay  it  low  in  the  gleaming  snow 

To  music  of  my  blows ; 

Then  gaily  sing  while  the  woodlands  ring 

With  echoes  of  the  ax, 

Though  the  trees  are  tall  I'll  conquer  them  all 

And  break  their  sturdy  backs. 

HOW  BE  YER? 

I  don't  gin  much  for  city  ways 

O'  ginning  a  handshake, 

This  taking  hold  o'  people's  hands 

As  though  you  thought  they'd  break ; 

I  like  to  hev  'em  grip  my  hand 

Like  'twas  an  ax  or  plow, 

An'  gin  my  arm  a  wrench  an1  say 

How  be  yer  anyhow? 

A  LAW  OF  NATURE 

Yer  can't  plant  cabbage  seed  and  get  a  tater, 
Not  in  my  garden  patch,  an'  that  aint  Nater, 
An'  he  who  goes  around  a-sowin'  evil, 
Will  reap  a  crap  o'  pig- weeds  from  the  devil. 
171 


VANITY 

When  I  see  a  feller  round  a-blowin' 

About  how  much  he  knows,  a  kinder  crowin' 

Over  the  saints,  and  over  all  creation, 

I'm  mighty  glad  he  aint  o'  my  relation. 


OUR  SINS 

Our  sins  are  like  the  weeds  we  see  a-growin' 
Down  in  the  medderlot  when  we're  a-mowin', 
For  if  there's  one  a-noddin'  in  the  clover 
There's  almost  sartin  sure  to  be  another. 


17* 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


THE  CITY  OF  THE  DEAD 

Know  you  the  city  of  the  dead  — 

A  town  of  much  repute? 
Where  never  a  word  by  day  ivS  said, 

And  all  the  clocks  are  mute. 

Where  joy  ne'er  comes,  nor  any  woes, 
And  sunlight  never  streams, 

Where  from  his  house  no  tenant  goes 
And  all  the  hours  are  dreams. 

The  streets  are  narrow  in  this  town, 

The  houses  are  not  tall, 
And  they  are  built  so  far,  far  down, 

The  turf  grows  over  all. 

Only  their  domes  and  turrets  show 

Above  the  grasses  green, 
But  all  are  quite  alike  below 

Where  they  are  never  seen. 

And  every  dweller  has  his  name 

Engraved  upon  the  spire, 
A  word  of  praise  unto  his  fame, 

Or  charity,  that's  higher. 

And  people  come  to  read  the  words, 

But  never  stay  —  alas, 
Their  only  true  friends  are  the  birds 

The  sunlight  and  the  grass. 

175 


With  every  year  a  phalanx  comes 

All  without  sound  of  feet, 
To  swell  the  countless  little  homes 

Along  the  darksome  street, 

And  some  are  rich  and  some  ire  poor, 

And  others  great  or  small, 
But  the  grass  will  grow  o'er  every  door 

And  cover  them  one  and  all. 


THE  GUERDON  OF  SONG 

'Tis  not  for  wealth  I  sing  my  simple  lays, 
Or  e'en  for  fame  or  for  the  critic's  praise ; 
But  for  the  joy  of  feeling  and  of  living 
All  that  I  say,  and  for  the  joy  of  giving. 

He  who  can  feel  that  by  his  life  he  feeds 
A  hungry  world  and  fills  another's  needs, 
E'en  though  his  soi;g  may  be  but  idle  things 
Has  known  the  joy  for  which  the  poet  sings. 

TEARS  OF  ANGELS 

Dark  was  the  night,  the  cheerless  starless  night, 
But  darker  were  the  shadows  round  my  soul, 
For  hope  and  faith  and  strength  had  perished 

all 

And  now  it  seemed  there  was  no  truth,  no  right. 

176 


But  while  I  slept,  my  sorrows  all  took  flight 
And  in  my  dreams  the  heavens  opened  wide, 
And  hosts  of  angels  gathered  to  my  side 
And  gazed  on  me  with  faces  wondrous  bright, 
While  down  their  cheeks  there  fell  great  drops 

like  rain, 

And  each  did  strive  to  soothe  my  trembling  fears 
With  thoughts  of   things  above  the   vaulted 
blue. 

Then  breaking  morn  illumed  the  earth  again, 
And  when  I  sought  to  trace  the  angels'  tears, 
Behold  the  grass  and  flowers  were  wet  with 
dew. 


PAIN'S  RECOMPENSE 

By  life's  alternate  joy  and  woe 
Our  sorrows  teach  us  ere  they  go, 

The  highest,  noblest  lesson ; 
That  where  true  manhood  strongest  grows. 
Where  love  in  sweetest  fragrance  blows, 

There  sorrow's  dewdrops  glisten. 


177 


PEBBLES  AND  SHELLS 

THE    HEIGHTS    AND    THE    DEPTHS 

I  would  not  live  upon  one  changeless  plain, 
With  joy  or  sorrow  evermore  to  reign ; 
As  blood  is  darker  on  the  spotless  snow, 
So  joy  is  sweeter  in  the  cup  of  woe. 

GOD'S  LOVE 

As  tireless  as  the  rivers  move 

That  water  vale  and  lea, 
So  flows  the  river  of  God's  love 

Unto  a  shoreless  sea. 

ANGELS    OF    EARTH 

We  think  of  angels  as  ethereal  things, 
With  souls  as  spotless  as  their  shining  wings, 
But  unto  some,  upon  this  earth  'tis  given 
To  far  transcend  the  angel  hosts  of  heaven. 

HOME 

Build  man  a  palace  turreted  and  grand, 
Embellish  it  with  gold  from  India's  strand, 
Then  furnish  it  voluptuous  and  fair, 
Yet  'tis  not  home  without  his  love  is  there. 

178 


A  FABLE   IN  ART 

Long  years  ago,  in  some  forgotten  reign, 
There  lived  a  limner  wedded  to  his  art, 
With  but  one  purpose  burning  in  his  heart ; 
That  by  his  brush,  the  dreamland  in  his  brain 
Might  find  a  place  in  galleries  of  Spain. 
And  with  this  purpose  glowing  in  his  heart 
Before  his  easel    sat  he  years  apart, 
Until  at  last  his  strength  began  to  wane. 
But  with  the  years  a  wondrous  landscape  grew 
Beneath  his  brush,  so  subtle  was  its  hue 
Of  crimson  clouds,  no  artist  could  declare 
From  whence   it  came,    until  one    morn   they 

found 

The  hand  grown  cold,  above  his  heart  a  wound 
From  whence  there  flowed  the  crimson  rich  and 

rare. 


SATISFIED 

When  in  this  life  a  soul  shall  find 
That  which  shall  satisfy  the  heart  and  mind 
In  all  its  craving,  doubting,  hoping,  striving, 
Then  to  that  soul  is  life  made  worth  the  living ; 
And  in  that  hour  unto  that  soul  'tis  given, 
To  know  in  part  the  boundless  joys  of  heaven. 


179 


THE  POET'S  JOY 

A  grain  of  gold  without  alloy, 

A  perfect  thing  from  life's  poor  alchemy, 

Dearer  than  wealth  or  fame  or  power  to  me 

I  hold  this  sweet  delight,  the  poet's  joy. 

When  I  can  rise  above  all  low  annoy 

In  matchless  flight  upon  the  wings  of  song 

And  sing  a  strain  so  deep,  so  pure  so  strong 

That  all  earth's  sordid  strife  cannot  destroy 

The  waking  dream,  or  kill  the  living  thought. 

When  I  can  feel  in  truth  that  I  have  wrought 

Into  the  lives  and  deeds  of  men  to  be 

A  noble  thought,  that  they  may  know  my  power 

When  I  am  gone ;   my  joy  in  that  brief  hour 

Is  more  than  years  of  baser  ecstacy. 


AMPLIUS 

Sweet  banished  years  of  joy  and  youth, 
Of  twenty-five  this  is  the  last ; 

I  cannot  weave  its  fragile  woof, 
That  day  is  done,  that  die  is  cast. 

I  cannot  summon  childhood  days 

And  blend  them  with  thy  coming  years, 

Or  place  its  coronet  of  flowers 

Upon  a  brow  that  smiles  through  tears. 


i  So 


I  cannot  pierce  those  distant  days 
That  ne'er  have  seen  the  tide  of  time 

And  sing  a  prophet's  wondrous  lays, 
I  only  know  a  poet's  rhyme. 

This  day  God  gives  thee  something  grand, 

A  life  of  action  and  of  power, 
A  throbbing  heart,  a  willing  hand, 

A  noble  art,  a  fleeting  hour. 

Let  every  year  that  marks  thy  life 
Be  filled  with  noble  actions  done, 

Let  every  effort  in  the  strife 

But  nerve  thee  for  a  greater  one. 

Fight  bravely  onward  unto  death 

And  thou  shalt  yet  be  known  of  kings, 

Let  every  heart  beat,  every  breath, 
But  lift  thee  up  to  higher  things ; 

Then  when  thou  lay'st  thine  armor  down, 
Amid  the  battle's  dust  and  heat, 

Thou  shalt  receive  a  golden  crown, 
A  scepter  and  a  regent's  seat. 

THE  SOUL  OF  ART 

A  strange  uncertain  mass  the  colors  lay, 
In  wild  profusion  on  the  pallette  board, 
And  who  would   guess  that  in  that  mass  was 
stored 

181 


The  matchless  glory  of  an  autumn  day, 
Or  who  would  dream  that  mortal  would  essay 
To  catch  the  light  upon  a  stream  that  poured 
Down    jagged    cliffs,    where    flaming    maples 

towered, 
And  autumn's  mantle  over  the  fair  earth  lay. 

Yet  one  I  knew  took  up  the  lifeless  brush 
And  spread  the  paint  with  such  consummate  skill, 
That  one  could  see  the  sunlight  dance  and  thrill 
Along  the  leaves  and  hear  the  torrents  rush. 
It  was  not  that  the  sight  could  understand, 
It  was  the  soul  that  moved  the  artist's  hand. 


A  HEART  OF  GOLD 

A  beggar  by  the  roadside  sat  him  down, 

His  clothes  were  poor,  he  had  a  heart  of  gold, 

Upon  his  throne  there  was  a  mighty  king, 

His  robes  were  fair,  his  heart  was  hard  and  cold. 

Which  would  you  love,  the  beggar  or  the  king? 

One  was  a  man  — the  other,  well  —  a  thing. 


182 


PEBBLES  AND  SHELLS 

THE   ANTIPODES 

Hate  is  a  dagger  in  the  human  heart, 
And  he  who  hates  will  surely  feel  its  smart ; 
Love  is  an  angel  in  a  woman's  eyes 
That  brings  the  earthly  nearer  Paradise. 

A    LESSON 

If  e'en  one  star  in  heaven  fails  to  shine 
The  earth  is  darker  for  that  loss  of  light ; 
If  thou  canst  laugh  and  smile  in  sorrow's 
night, 

The  earth  is  brighter  for  that  smile  of  thine. 

PATIENCE 

Notice  how  patiently  the  spider  spins, 
Forming  his  fabric  fair  by  slow  degree ; 
And  cannot  man,  as  patiently  as  he, 

Strive  on  and  on  and  on,  until  he  wins? 

HAVE    CHARITY 

Have  charity  for  all  thy  fellow  men, 

Despise  not  him  whom  sin  hath  left  alone ; 
When  we  shall  see  and  know  as  we  are  known r 

The  darkest  soul  may  prove  the  fairest  then. 

1*3 


GETHSEMANE 

Ye  proud  nobility  who  walk  the  earth 

In  unconcern,  where  every  form  of  want, 

Of  sin  and  crime  and  hunger  grim  and  gaunt 

Stand  specter-like  beside  the  poor  man's  hearth, 

And  rob  humanity  of  joy  and  mirth, 

Where  God's   free  sunlight   never  deigns  to 

slant 
Across  the  floor  of  dens  where  demons  haunt 

The  human  soul  —  O  put  aside  your  birth, 
Your  heritage  of  ease,  and  for  one  day 
Come  forth  with   me  to  life's  Gethsemane  to 
pray; 

Take  all  this  heavy  load,  the  whole  world's  rue 
Upon  yourselves,  as  Jesus  did  of  old, — 
Then  be  your  hearts  like  icebergs  frigid  cold, 

They  needs  must  melt  with  pity  through  and 
through. 


THE  HIDDEN  LIFE 

Deep  down  beneath  the  billows'  angry  sweep, 

Beyond  the  fury  of  the  raging  sea, 

There  is  a  world  of  silent  mystery ; 

There  coral  mountains  lift  their  hoary  heads, 

Where  sea  shells  lie  in  glowing  amber  beds, 

And  all  is  wrapped  in  deep  eternal  sleep. 

184 


Deep  down  beneath  the  world's  distress  and  pain 
Beyond  the  fury  of  life's  ceaseless  storm, 
To  noble  souls  there  is  eternal  calm ; 
There  fancy  sits  in  bright  illumined  caves 
And  hoards  the  treasures  of  the  stormy  waves, 
Where  quiet  truth  and  beauty  ever  reign. 


ASLEEP 

WRITTEN    FOR    OLIVER    WENDELL    HOLMES 

The  bard  was  good,  and  Death  it  had  no  fears, 
So  he  was  waiting  but  t©  fall  asleep ; 
His  life  had  been  so  full  and  broad  and  deep 
With  all  the  rich  experience  of  years, 
And  he  had  seen  so  much  of  pomp  and  peers 
And  stood  so  high  upon  achievements  steep 
That  what  was  left  but  just  to  fall  asleep. 
They  gathered  round  his  bier  in  grief  and  tears, 
One  placed  a  wreath  upon  his  pulseless  breast, 
One  kissed  the  lips  that  never  more  would  sing, 
Their  tears,   their  flowers  and  all   that  love 

could  bring 

Were  proffered  him  e'er  he  was  laid  to  rest ; 
And  while  the  nations  honored  him  and  wept 
The  noble  bard  in  sweet  oblivion  slept. 


185 


ALBUM  LEAVES 

True  friends  are  like  the  stars  in  heaven 
That  ever  steadier  brighter  glow 
When  all  is  darkness  here  below, 
For  when  our  sorrows  dim  the  sight 
And  all  about  is  dark  as  night, 
Their  loves  and  sympathies  are  given. 

True  love  is  like  a  fragile  flower 

That  smiling  opes  its  tender  eyes 

And  breathes  sweet  fragrance  to  the  skiesr 

For  though  its  sphere  be  great  or  small 

It  sheds  a  beauty  over  all 

And  cheers  and  gladdens  every  hour. 

Kind  words  are  like  the  gentle  rain 
That  melts  away  the  ice  and  snow 
And  bids  the  happy  brooklet  flow, 
For  though  the  heart  be  cold  and  drear, 
A  kindly  word  of  hope  and  cheer 
May  melt  away  its  icy  chain. 

Good  deeds  are  like  the  days  of  spring 
That  fill  the  heart  with  joy  and  mirth 
And  draw  rich  beauties  from  the  earth, 
For  he  who  giveth  full  and  free, 
Will  find  his  bread  upon  the  sea 
Within  the  kingdom  of  the  king. 


1 86 


LIFE  IS  A  DAY 

Life  is  a  day  of  sun  and  shower 
And  none  can  tell  how  it  will  end, 
A  sunny  morn  may  showers  send, 
A  cloudy  dawn  will  often  mend, 
But  man  must  upward,  onward  wend 
And  do  his  duty  hour  by  hour. 


THE  BROKEN  HARP 

My  golden  harp  lay  broken  on  the  floor, 

My  shattered  hopes  among  its  parted  strings  — 
Ah  who  can  know  the  joy  of  him  who  sings, 

Or  grief  of  him  whose  heart  will  sing  no  more, 

'Twas  not  for  me  to  add  unto  the  store 

Of  golden  thoughts  in  sweet  pathetic  rhyme 
That  loftly  bards  had  given  to  their  time — 

Not  e'en  one  thought,  one  little  maxim  more ; 

But  I  had  lived  to  sing  a  noble  strain 

That  thought  let  fall  from  off  a  burning  pen 
Might  raise  the  souls  and  touch  the  lives  of 
men. 

Long  years  rolled  by,  the  harp  ne'er  spoke  again, 
But  love  still  labored  on  through  grief  and 

wrong 
And  made  one  life  a  sweet  immortal  song. 

187 


PEBBLES  AND  SHELLS 

THE    KING   AND    THE    BEGGAR 

A  beggar  asked  for  alms  beside  the  palace  gate, 
The   king   passed   by  and   left   him   poor    and 

desolate 
But  on  the  morn  he  was  a  king  beyond  the 

skies, 
The  king  a  beggar  at  the  gate  of  Paradise. 

DO    ANGELS    CARE? 

Do  angels  care  for  Shakespeare  and  the  rest, 
Have  they  no  kindred  with  the  human  breast? 
If  they  care  not  for  all  that  man  has  done, 
How  can  he  care  for  heaven  when  'tis  won? 

LIFE'S  ALCHEMY 

Into  the  crucible  of  grief  a  life  was  thrown, 
Awhile  the  bright  flames  danced  around  the 
blackened  bowl ; 

And  in  the  melting  heat  the  liquid  metal  shone, 
Until  the  alchemist  beheld  a  spotless  soul. 

TWO    RIDDLES 

A  little  child  plays  at  his  mother's  knee, 
But  who  can  say  what  man  the  child  will  be? 
An  aged  pilgrim  lays  life's  burden  down 
But  has  he  failed,  or  shall  he  wear  a  crown  ? 

188 


THE  POET'S  ART 

How  doth  the  poet  weave  his  magic  song, 

His  warp  the  golden  threads  of  living  truth, 
With  silver  words  and  phrases  for  the  woof, 

That  all  may  blend  in  fabric  fair  and  strong? 

He  sitteth  by  his  loom  and  ponders  long 

Those  things  that  make  or  mar  the  lives  of 

men. 
From  out  the  depths  of  all  that  he  has  been 

He  summons  back  the  grief,  the  strife,  the  wrong 

And  lays  them  all  beside  the  joy  of  May, 
From  every  varied  hue  of  mortal  strife 
He  gathers  in  each  streaming  thread  of  life 

And  weaves  them  all  into  his  perfect  lay  — 
This  is  the  secret  of  the  poet's  art, 
Nearer  to  God,  nearer  the  human  heart. 


HOMEWARD  BOUND 

"We're  homeward  bound,"  the  sailor  sings, 
' '  We  skim  the  main  with  sea-gull  wings ; 
We  care  not  for  the  raging  storm 
When  we  can  see  the  mast-head's  form, 
At  Neptune's  wrath  all  sailors  laugh 
When  love  is  waiting  at  the  wharf. 


189 


THE  TOWER  OF  SILENCE 

Above  the  sacred  city  on  the  hill 

Where  India's  cloudless  heavens  seem  to  lower, 
And  all  the  earth  and  air  are  deathly  still, 

There  stands  dark  Dahkma,  or  the  Silent 
Tower. 

Deep-lined  against  the  sky  its  massive  form 
Towers  heavenward  from  the  place  of  ceaseless 
prayer, 

To  front  the  summer  sunshine  and  the  storm, 
And  evermore  to  cast  its  shadow  there. 

No  voice  of  gladness  stirs  its  silent  sphere, 
And  all  the  place  a  deathlike  stillness  keeps, 

Save  when  the  vulture  screams  and  hovers  near, 
And  o'er  her  love  a  dark  Parseean  weeps. 

No  footfall  wakes  the  chamber  of  the  dead 
Save  when  a  corse  is  laid  upon  the  floor, 

For  spirits  move  with  swift  and  silent  tread, 
And  Life  and  Death  are  parted  at  the  door. 

Here  side  by  side  is  prince  and  pauper  clay, 
And  royal  ash  lies  mixed  with  common  dust, 

Here  pomp  and  glory  vanish  with  decay 
And  selfish  man  forgets  his  greed  and  lust. 

Here  hoary  heads  shall  lie  where  babes  have  slept 
And  low  degree  may  mingle  in  the  throng, 

190 


Here  friends  shall  sleep  with  friends  that  they 

have  wept 
And  innocence  forget  its  grief  and  wrong. 

And  all  day  long  across  the  tropic  plains 

Fair  forms  are  borne  by  Zerdasht  Holy  Band, 

Up  to  the  hill,  in  slow  and  solemn  trains, 

While  Magi  chant  the  sacred  words  of  Zend. 

Out  of  the  orient  land  the  mourner  comes 
Bringing  the  nation's  noblest  and  its  best, 

Bearing  the  idols  of  a  thousand  homes 

Up  to  the  tower  where  all  at  last  must  rest. 

O  Dahkma  grim !  Thou  art  the  bane  of  life, 
Thy  shadows  touch  the  utmost  bounds  of  earth, 

And  fill  man's  days  with  bitterness  and  strife 
And  darken  every  human  life  at  birth. 

But  earth  and  air  and  sky  seem  filled  with  joy, 
Creation  smiles  and  all  the  world  is  glad, 

In  Nature's  heart  there  is  no  dark  alloy, 
Of  all  her  creatures  man  alone  is  sad. 

Ah  no !  My  soul  forgets  what  Zerdasht  saith 
And  what  the  earth  and  heavens  declare  to  me ; 

That  life  is  but  the  highway  unto  death, 
And  death  the  door  to  immortality. 


191 


THE  NOBLEST  THING  OF  ALL 

A  wondrous  thought  my  idle  tongue  let  fall 
One  day  while  musing  o'er  the  lives  of  men  — 
Of  all  the  noble  deeds  that  e'er  have  been 

Which  truly  is  the  noblest  of  them  all? 

Was  it  some  deed  of  arms  by  Trojan  wall, 
Or  act  of  love  in  some  foul  prison  den, 
Or  bold  invective  from  a  flaming  pen, 

Or  gentle  ministry  beside  the  pall  ? 

But  in  the  pause  my  heart  made  answer  bold, 
I  knew  a  life  whose  days  were  dark  and  cold, 

Each  hour  seemed  fraught  with  more  than  soul 

could  stand 

Of  bitter  grief  that  turns  the  heart  to  stone  — 
Yet  on  that  face  a  smile  like  heaven  shone. 

This  was  the  noblest  thing  of  all,  'twas  grand  ! 


THE  ROAD  TO  FAME 

The  road  to  fame  is  not  up  shining  stairs 
That  lead  unbroken  to  the  dizzy  heights, 
But  he  who  climbs  must  leap  from  cliff  to  cliff, 
By   dangerous   ways   through   weary  days   and 

nights, 

Until  he  finds  a  foot-hold  in  some  rift 
Or  niche  of  fame,  where  all  the  world  may  see, 
Where  he  can  stand  and  view  humanity. 

192 


PEBBLES  AND  SHELLS 

THREE    SCORE   AND    TEN 

Only  a  ripple  on  the  sea  of  time 

As  though  'twere  stirred  by  some  uncertain 

breath, 

Then  comes  the  calm  e'er  it  has  space  to  climb, 
And  some  poor  soul  has  passed  from  birth  to 
death. 

AGE   AND    YOUTH 

When  we  are  young  we  long  for  years 
To  give  us  wisdom,  strength  and  truth ; 

When  we  are  old,  with  smiles  and  tears 
We  oft  recall  the  joys  of  youth. 

THE    DEAD    SEA 

This  dark  and  lifeless  never  changing  sea 

Is  like  a  life  that  knows  not  charity. 

It  drains  the  verdant  earth  but  never  gives, 
And  from  that  circumstance  it  never  lives. 

RICH    OR    POOR 

The  rich  man  sighs  for  love  and  sympathy 
And  those  dear  things  that  ne'er  are  bought 

or  sold ; 
The  poor  man  sighs  because  he  has  no  gold 

To  build  a  mansion  for  his  loved  ones,  three. 

193 


THE  MIDSHIPMITE 

Ah  yes  my  lads,  'was  long  ago, 

It  seems  an  age  to  me, 
Since  good  ship  Victor  spread  her  sails 

And  then  put  out  to  sea. 

She  was  as  staunch  and  true  a  ship 

As  ever  sailed  the  main, 
She'd  hold  her  own  on  any  sea, 

In  wind  or  hurricane. 

And  all  our  crew  were  stalwart  men 

As  ever  walked  a  deck, 
Our  mate  had  sailed  in  unknown  seas 

And  outlived  many  a  wreck. 

Our  captain  was  a  sailor  born 

And  well  he  kept  his  log, 
Yet  had  one  fault,  one  grievous  sin, 

He  guzzled  too  much  grog. 

But  not  of  these  I  tell  my  tale, 

'Tis  of  the  midshipmite, 
He  was  the  joy  of  all  the  ship 

Our  solace  and  delight. 

His  eyes  were  blue  as  any  sea, 
His  cheeks  were  like  the  dawn, 

And  fair  his  shock  of  flaxen  hair 
As  wind  e'er  blew  upon. 

194 


He  was  an  orphan  and  a  waif, 

Yet  happy  as  a  king, 
And  it  was  music  to  my  soul 

To  hear  him  laugh  and  sing. 

The  winds  were  fair  and  all  went  well 

Until  we  struck  a  sea 
Along  the  low  Australian  coast, 

In  latitude  twenty-three. 

Where  not  a  ripple  stirred  the  brine 

Or  e'en  a  sail  would  fill, 
Where  all  was  brazen  overhead 

And  all  was  deathly  still. 

Three  dreary  days  we  sweltered  there 

Beneath  that  sky  of  brass, 
Three  weary  days  we  floated  there 

Upon  that  sea  of  glass. 

Then  suddenly  from  out  the  south 

There  grew  a  tiny  speck, 
"  Haul  in  your  canvas,"  roared  the  mate, 
"  Or  we  shall  be  a  wreck !  " 

Old  sailors  sprang  upon  the  yards 
And  quickly  shortened  sail, 

And  in  a  breath  the  vessel  stood 
Trimmed  ready  for  the  gale. 

195 


The  typhoon  struck  us  full  astern, 
Stout  masts  bent  down  like  reeds. 

She  rose  and  fell,  then  rose  again 
To  meet  old  ocean's  steeds. 

In  serried  ranks  they  charged  her  deck, 
They  drenched  the  scattered  crew, 

And  lower  still  the  mastheads  bent 
As  still  the  tempest  grew. 

But  good  ship  Victor  laughed  to  scorn 

The  winds  that  blew  so  free, 
And  raised  her  crest  above  the  waves 

And  bounded  o'er  the  sea. 

Then  staggering  upward  from  below 

Our  drunken  captain  came, 
His  bloodshot  eyes  seemed   filled  with  fire, 

His  swarthy  cheeks  aflame. 

41  What  means  this  coward  crew!  "  he  cried, 

4 '  What !   fear  you  such  a  gale  ? 
k  All  hands  aloft  upon  the  yards 
And  set  the  topmost  sail. 

What  then  my  lads,  you  will  not  go?  " 

The  frenzied  captain  cried, 
44  I'll  teach  this  crew  to  disobey  — 
Bring  out  my  old  rawhide !  " 

196 


The  middy  stood  bewildered  there 

Uncertain  what  to  do, 
He  saw  the  captain's  sullen  glare, 

The  darkly  frowning  crew ; 

He  saw  the  snow  white  canvas  gleam 

Upon  each  straining  mast, 
He  heard  the  beating  of  his  heart 

Above  the  howling  blast. 

Then  like  a  hound  the  captain  sprang, 
And  forward  sprang  the  mate 

To  snatch  the  middy  from  his  grasp  — 
Ah  God !  too  late  !  too  late ! 

He  seized  him  fiercely  by  the  throat  — 

My  blood  ran  cold  in  me, 
Then  hurled  him  far  across  the  deck 

Into  the  raging  sea. 

A  wild,  wild  cry,  like  a  sea  gull's  scream, 

Fell  sharply  on  the  air, 
And  a  stifled  groan  from  man  to  man 

Went  upward  like  a  prayer. 

No  boat  could  live  in  such  a  sea, 
No  hand  but  God's  could  save, 

He  rose  upon  the  billow's  crest, 
Then  sank  beneath  the  wave. 


197 


A  moment  more  and  far-away 

I  saw  him  rise  and  dip, 
And  when  the  midshipmite  went  down 

He  beckoned  to  the  ship. 

We  never  saw  the  lad  again 

Or  heard  his  merry  song, 
And  all  our  hearts  were  filled  with  grief 

And  all  the  ship  seemed  wrong. 

But  in  the  watches  of  the  night 

Our  wretched  captain  swore 
He  heard  the  middy's  cry  for  help 

Above  the  deafening  roar. 

And  when  the  morning  came  again 

With  breeze  and  balmy  air, 
He  saw  his  form  upon  the  waves ; 

His  hand  still  beckoned  there. 

Thus  wore  the  weary  voyage  on 

Until  we  entered  port, 
With  changing  winds  and  fickle  seas 

And  all  things  out  of  sort. 

We  lay  in  port  a  weary  week 

And  then  put  out  to  sea, 
The  middy  followed  in  our  wake, 

All  was  adversity. 

198 


The  winds  blew  east  the  winds  blew  west 
They  then  blew  north  and  south, 

The  sea  was  smooth  the  sea  was  rough, 
And  it  ope'd  its  yawning  mouth. 

We  shifted  sail  and  tacked  and  turned 
To  please  the  powers  that  be, 

Until  we  reached  that  selfsame  coast 
In  latitude  twenty-three. 

And  there  we  hung  upon  that  sea 

As  we  had  done  before, 
As  lifeless  as  a  phantom  ship 

Beside  a  phantom  shore. 

Then  once  again  there  came  a  speck 

From  out  the  brazen  south, 
And  once  again  his  steeds  rose  up 

When  Neptune  blew  his  breath. 

We  did  not  hear  the  demon  come, 

It  came  with'  noiseless  feet, 
Until  the  sea  about  the  ship 

Was  all  one  boiling  sheet. 

Until  the  tempest  struck  the  ship 
And  stripped  her  of  her  sails, 

Until  the  monsters  of  the  deep 
Were  pouring  o'er  our  rails. 

199 


We  tried  to  keep  her  to  the  wind  — 
She  would  not  mind  her  wheel, 

The  billows  tossed  her  bow  about 
And  made  her  rock  and  reel. 

Still  louder  and  still  louder  grew 

The  tempest's  mighty  roar, 
And  all  that  time  our  helpless  ship 

Swept  onward  toward  the  shore. 

"  It  is  the  lad!  "  our  captain  cried, 
' '  That  stirs  this  angry  sea, 
I  see  his  hand  above  the  mast, 
It  beckons  unto  me." 

We  heard  the  breakers  on  the  shore 

Above  the  howling  gale, 
And  fearless  hearts  grew  cold  with  fear, 

And  swarthy  cheeks  grew  pale. 

Swift  as  a  mountain  avalanche, 

Dread  messenger  of  grief, 
Our  good  ship  skimmed  the  rushing  seas 

And  struck  upon  the  reef. 

And  where  she  struck  the  breakers  lay 

Like  snow-fields,  but  alas! 
Beneath  their  foam  were  jagged  rocks  — 

Her  hull  broke  up  like  glass. 


200 


Her  tall  masts  fell  like  broken  reeds 

Into  the  boiling  brine, 
And  hull  and  bar  and  canvas  lay 

Along  the  dread  snow  line. 

Half  stunned  and  bleeding,  on  a  spar, 
With  knotted  ropes  made  fast, 

Made  sport  of  by  the  cruel  waves, 
Derided  by  the  blast, 

I  tossed  upon  the  angry  sea 

Until  its  wrath  was  gone, 
At  morn  it  left  me  on  the  strand, 

Half  naked  and  alone. 

I  saw  the  wreck  along  the  shore 

By  mighty  billows  rolled, 
I  saw  her  timbers  on  the  sand, 

Amid  the  slime  and  mold. 

And  in  the  pauses  of  the  blast, 
The  breakers  seemed  to  say, 
"Vengeance  is  mine,"  Jehovah  saith, 
"  I  surely  will  repay." 


PEBBLES  AND  SHELLS 

ONLY    A    PEBBLE 

Only  a  little  pebble  on  a  rocky  strand 
Roll'd  by  the  restless  sea  till  it  shall  be  but  sand ; 
Only  a  little  life  upon  existence's  shore 
Tost  by  the  tides  of  time  till  it  shall  be  no 
more. 

MAN'S   LITTLENESS 

Man  serves  his  generation  and  his  day, 
But  time,  it  stretcheth  e'en  from  aye  to  aye ; 
And  his  great  world,  where  boundless  oceans  toss, 
Is  but  an  atom  in  the  universe. 

AN    ESTIMATE 

In  youth  we  ask  if  he  be  sharp  of  wit, 
Or  rich,  or  famed  before  we  call  him  fit; 
In  age  we  ask  if  he  has  suffered  long 
And  nobly  done  his  part  through  praise  or 
wrong. 

THE   FAIREST    HAND 

The  fairest  hand  may  not  be  soft  and  white, 
Encased  in  gloves,  neat-fitting  to  the  arm ; 

The  hand  of  toil  may  be  a  fairer  sight 
When  it  holds  charity  within  its  palm. 


A  QUERY 

If  nature  feels  the  thrill  of  might 
In  every  leaf  and  blade  and  flower 
That  struggles  upward  toward  the  light 
Obedient  to  some  hidden  power ; 
Why  does  man  grovel  in  the  dust 
And  foster  greed  and  pride  and  lust, 
Instead  of  reaching  up  and  striving 
Toward  a  higher,  nobler  living? 


THE  STREAM  OF  LIFE 

I  stood  at  morn  upon  the  crowded  street 

Where  men  of  every  clime  and  country  throng, 

Where  rich  and  poor  and  high  and  lowly  meet, 
And  mingle  in  the  tide  that  sweeps  along, 

And  sought  to  read  upon  that  troubled  sea 
Where  righteousness  went  side  by  side  with 
wrong, 

The  hopes  and  fears  of  all  humanity ; 
And  this  became  the  burden  of  my  song. 

Oh !   darkly  rushing  stream,  one  moment  stay, 
And  let  me  linger  on  life's  sunny  shore, 
And  dip  more  deeply  into  human  lore, 

And  learn  to  love  and  trust  and  truly  weigh 
The  things  of  life  ere  it  shall  be  no  more  — 
But  still  the  stream  swept  onward  as  before. 

203 


BROKEN  RAILS 

The  swift  express  that  never  fails 
Sweeps  onward  to  its  journey's  end, 

And  wife  and  child  and  happy  friend 

Look  forward  to  the  city's  pales, 

Unconscious  of  those  broken  rails. 
A  plunge,  a  crash,  no  time  to  slack, 
The  swift  express  has  jumped  the  track, 

And  shrieks  and  moans  and  dying  wails, 
And  fearful  flames  with  lurid  light 
Make  hideous  the  coming  night. 

No  wonder  that  the  brave  heart  quails 
Along  life's  dark  uncertain  track, 
Man  knoweth  not  what  hour  to  slack 

Or  where  to  find  the  broken  rails. 


TO  PADEREWSKI  PLAYING 

'Tis  vain  for  me  to  praise  thy  matchless  power 
Strange  dweller  in  a  land  of  mysteries, 
When  thou  dost  lean  across  the  snowy  keys 

And  fill  my  soul  with  feeling's  richest  dower, 

Long  years  of  baser  life  in  that  sweet  hour 
Are  awakened  by  the  magic  of  thy  strain, 
When  tender  love  and  joy  and  bitter  pain 

Sweep  o'er  my  soul,  like  breezes  o'er  a  flower. 


204 


O  smite  the  keys  and  to  my  fevered  soul 
From  out  thy  life  let  such  an  anthem  roll 

That  I  shall  hear  and  see  and  understand 
The  mysteries  of  life,  teach  me  thy  fire 
And  I  will  string  my  poor  impassioned  lyre 

And  sing  the  world  an  anthem  new  and  grand. 


UPON  THE  HEIGHTS 

I  stood  at  evening  on  the  solemn  heights, 

Upon  the  spot  where  earth  and  heaven  meet, 
I  saw  the  broad  earth  lying  at  my  feet, 

Her  bosom  set  with  myriad  twinkling  lights, 
I  heard  a  church  bell  tolling  sacred  rites, 

And  faint  and  far  a  nightbird's  plaintive  call, 

I  felt  the  love  that  broodeth  over  all 

And  winged  my  soul  to  new  and  higher  flights. 

It  was  not  night,  mine  eyes  were  growing  dim, 
I  stood  upon  the  hoary  heights  of  years, 
Above  the  plain  of  youthful  joys  and  fears 
And  saw  e'en  to  life's  dark  horizon  rim ; 

All  things  were  plain,  the  darkest  clouds  were 

riven, 

And    hosts   of    stars   illumined   the  gates   of 
heaven. 


TRUE  RICHES 

Man  is  the  mighty  arbiter  of  fate, 

The  prince  of  power,  of  pleasure  and  of  art ; 

From  out  himself  he  rules  the  human  heart, 
And  fills  his  little  world  with  love  or  hate. 
The  poor  man  stands  beside  the  rich  man's  gate 

And  wonders  if  a  mansion  in  the  skies 

Could  give  more  pleasure  to  his  hungry  eyes, 
The  owner  grumbles  o'er  his  broad  estate. 

It  is  not  what  we  have  that  gives  content. 
But  what  we  give  unto  another's  need  — 
The  nude  we  clothe,  the  hungry  that  we  feed, 

And  if  we  want  above  what  Heaven  hath  sent. 

The  rich  man's  gold  shall  make  him  doubly 
poor 

If  beggars  turn  them  hungry  from  his  door. 


206 


PEBBLES  AND  SHELLS 

WISDOM 

Happy  is  he  who  takes  life  as  it  seems, 
Nor  seeks  to  pierce  the  vista  of  his  dreams, 
But  he  who  looks  for  wisdom's  priceless  dower 
Shall  wound  his  hand  upon  a  thorny  flower. 

APPEARANCES 

A  coat  of  rags  oft  holds  a  heart  of  gold 
And  kindliness  beyond  our  estimate ; 
While  cassimere  oft  covers  up  the  hate 

And  pride  and  vice  of  hearts  unkind  and  cold. 

A   DAY    IS   A   STITCH 

A  day  is  a  stitch  in  the  woof  of  time 

And  if  you  live  it  wrong, 
'Twill  mar  all  the  days  of  the  year  that  chime 

And  make  your  life  less  strong. 

LOST   HOPES 

Full  many  a  gallant  ship  I  send  to  sea 
To  battle  with  the  wind  and  rain ; 

And  some  of  them  come  bravely  back  to  me, 
But  more  are  never  seen  again. 

207 


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